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12J1_ 

INITFI) STATES OF AMF.RICA. 





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LUCI LE 



BY 



OWEN MEREDITH 



"IVhv, let tUe itiickcn deer go -u-tvp, 

The hart iiiigjIU-d play ; 
For some must 'd-atch while some must sleep 

Thus runs the -teorld avay." 



^ 



iVITH TIVELVE FACSIMILES OF IVATE%-C0L0% PAmTlOiGS "BV 

THOMAS McILVAlNE 

Together with numerous illustrations in black-anil-white by 
Thomas Mcllvaine and Frank M. Gregory 




NEW YORK 
FREDERICK A. STOKES COMPANY 

PUBLISHERS 



\ 



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Of WAS«'> . / 



CofAright. iSgj, 
By Frederick A. Stokes Comfhiny. 




Portrait or Thomas McIlvainb 







DEDICATION. 



(Lo mn ^'atljct. 



I DEDICATE to you a work, which is submitted to the public with a (hffidence and hesitation propor- 
tioned to the novelty of the effort it represents. For in this poem I have abandoned those forms of verse 
with which I had most familiarized my thoughts, and have endeavored to follow a path on which I could 
discover no footprints before me, either to guide or to warn. 

There is a moment of profound discouragement which succeeds to prolonged effort ; when, the labor 
which has become a habit having ceased, we miss the sustaining sense of its companionship, and stand, 
with a feeling of strangeness and embarrassment, before the abrupt and naked result. As regards ni\-- 
self, in the present instance, the force of all such sensations is increased by the circumstances to which 1 
have referred. And in this moment of discouragement and doubt, my heart instinctively turns to you, 
from whom it has so often sought, from whom it has never failed to receive, support. 

1 do not inscribe to you this book because it contains anything that is worthy the beloved and hon- 
ored name with which f thus seek to associate it : nor yet because I would avail myself of a \ulgar 
pretext to display in public an affection that is best honored by the silence which it renders sacred. 

Feelings only such as those with which, in days when there existed for me no critic less gentle than 
yourself, 1 brought to you my childish manuscripts ; feelings only such as those which have, in later 
years, associated with your heart all that has moved or occupied my own,— lead me once more to seek 
from the grasp of that hand which has hitherto been my guide and comfort through the life I 



assurance 



owe to you. 

And as in childhood, when existence had no toil beyond the day's simple lesson, no ambition beyond 
the neighboring approval of the night, I brought to you the morning's task for the evening's sanction, so 
now I bring to you this self-appointed task-work of maturer years ; less confident indeed of your ap- 
proval, but not less confident of your love ; and anxious only to realize your presence between myself and 
the public, and to mingle with those severer voices, to whose final sentence 1 submit my work, the 
beloved and gracious accents of your own. 

OWEN MEREDITH. 



LUCILE 



LUCILK. 



H' walk'd to the window. The morning was chill : 
The brown woods were crisp'd in the cold on the 

hill : 
The sole thing abroad in the streets was the wind : 
And the straws on the gust, like the thoughts in his 

mind. 
Rose, and eddied around and around, as tho' teasing 
Each other. The prospect, in truth, was unpleasing ; 
And Lord .Alfred, whilst moodily gazing around it. 
To himself more than once (vex'd in soulj sigh'd 

" Confound it !" 

IV. 

What the thoughts were which led to this had inter- 
jection. 

Sir. or Madam. I leave to your future detection ; 

For whatever they were, they were burst in upon. 

As the door was burst through, by my lord's Cousin 
John, 

CdUSIN JCHX. 

A fool, Alfred, a fool, a most motley fool ! 



Lord .\lfred 



Who ; 



John. 

The man who has anything better to do ; 
And vet so far forgets himself, so far degrades 
His position as Man, to this worst of all trades, 
\Vhich even a well-brought-up ape were above. 
To travel about with a woman in love, — 
Unless she's in love with himself. 



.Alfred. 



Are you here then, dear Jack : 



Indeed I why 



JoHX. 

Can't you guess it .' 

Alfred. 



Not 



OHX. 



Because I ha-'e nothing that 's better to do. 
1 had rather be bored, my dear Alfred, by you. 
On the whole (I must own), than be bored by my- 
self. ■ ■ 
That perverse, imperturbable, golden-hair'd elf — 
Your Will-o'-the-wisp — that has led you and me 
Such a dance through these hills — 

Alfred. 

Who, Matilda .' 
John. 

Yes ! she. 
Of course ! who but she could contrive so to keep 
One's eyes, and one's feet too, from falling aslee|> 
For even one half-hour of the long twenty-four? 



John. 

Why, she is — a matter, the more 
I consider about it, the more it demands 
An attention it does not deserve : and expands 
Beyond the dimensions which ev'n crinoline. 
When possess'd by a fair face and saucy Eighteen, 
Is entitled to take in this very small star 
Already too crowded, as / think, by far 
You read Malthas and Sadler .' 

Alfred. 

Of course. 

John. 

To what use, 
When you countenance, calmly, such monstrous 

abuse 
Of one mere human creature's legitimate space 
In this world ? Mars, Apollo, \'iroruni ! the case 
Wholly passes my patience. 

.Alfred. 

Mv own is worse tried. 



Yours, Alfred .-' 



lOHN. 



.Alfred. 



What s the matter .■' 



Alfred. 
Read this, if you doubt, and decide. 

John (rcadiiii; the U-th-r). 

I hear from Digo) re you are there. 1 am tola 
You are going to marry Miss Darcy. Of old — " 
What is this ? 

Alfred. 
Read it on to the end, and you'll know, 

John {eontinues reading). 

" ]Vhen ii>e parted, your last 'zoords recorded a 

7'07i> — 
What you -...■i/f . . . 

Hang it ! this smells all over, I swear. 
Of adventures and violets. Was it your hair 
You promised a lock of } 

Alfred. 

Read on. You'll discein. 

John (eontinues). 

" Those tetters / ash you, my /ord, to return." . . . 
Humph! . . . Letters I . . . the matter is woise 

than I guess'd ; 
I have m)- misgivings — 

Alfred. 

Well, read out the rest, 
.And advise. 



"LORD ALFRED WAS STARTLED. 
HE WALKED TO THE WINDOW." 

Pj ill ted by Tboiujs Miilvjiiu\ 



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COPVniGHT 10Q3 BV KREOEniCK A STOKES COMPANY 



LUCILE. 



John. 

Eh ? . . . Where was I ? . . . 

{conWiiufs) 

" Miss Darcy, perchance, 
Wil! forego one brief page from the summer 

romance 
Of her courtship." . . . 

Egad ! a romance, for my part, 
I'd forego eveiy page of. and not break my heart 1 

Alfred. 
Continue ! 

John (reading). 

" And spare you cue day from your place 
At her feet." . . . 

Pray forgive me the passing grimace. 
I wish you had MY place ! 

(reads) 

" / trust you ^eiU feel 
I desire nothing much. Your friend" . . . 

Bless me ! " Lucile "? 
The Comtesse de Xevers ? 

.Alfred. 

Yes. 

John. 

What will you do ? 
Alfred. 

You ask me just what I would rather ask you. 
John. 

Alfred. 

must. 



.\lfred. 
Tush, tush ! this is serious. 

John. 



You can't go. 



John. 

And Matilda ? 

.-Vlfred. 

Oh, that 
You must manage ! 

John. 

Must I ? I decline it. though, flat. 
In an hour the horses will be at the door. 
And Matilda is now in her habit. Before 
I have finish'd my breakfast, of course I receive 
A message for "dear Cousin fohn f" ... I must 

leave 
At the jeweller's the bracelet which i'ck broke last 

night ; 
I must call for the music. " Dear .•\lfred is right : 
The black shawl looks best : w /'// I change it } Of 

course 
I can just stop, in passing, to order the horse. 
Then Beau has the mumps, or St. Hubert knows 

what ; 
IF/// I see the dog-doctor .'" Hang Beau! I will 

not. 



It is. 

.•\lfred. 

Yen' well. 
You must think — 

ji>HN. 

What excuse will you make, tho' ,' 

.A.LFRED. 

Oh, tell 
Mrs. Darcy that . . . lend me your wits. Jack I . . . 

the deuce ! 
Can you not stretch your genius to fit a friend's 

use ? 
Excuses are clothes which, when asked unawares. 
Good Breeding to naked Necessity spares. 
You must have a whole wardrobe, no doubt. 

John. 

M\- dear fellow, 
Matilda is jealous, you know, as Othello. 



You joke. 



Alfred. 

JllHN. 

I am serious. Why go to Luchon ? 

Alfred. 

Don't ask me. I have not a choice, my dear John. 

Besides, shall I own a strange sort of desire. 

Before I extinguish forever the fire 

Of youth and romance, in whose shadowy light 

Hope whisper'd her first fairy tales, to excite 

The last spark, till it rise, and fade far in that 

dawn 
Of my days where the twilights of life were first 

drawn 
By the rosy, reluctant auroras of Love : 
In short, from the dead Past the gravestone to move; 
Of the vears long departed forever to take 
One last look, one final farewell ; to awake 
The Heroic of youth from the Hades of joy, 
And once more be, though but for an hour. Jack — 

a boy ! 

John. 

You had better go hang yourself. 

Alfred. 

No ! were it but 
To make sure that the Past from the Future is shut, 
It were worth the step back. Do you think wc 

should live 
With the living so lightly, and learn to survive 



lO 



LUCILE. 



That wild moment in which to the grave and its 

gloom 
We consign'd our heart's best, if the doors of the 

tomb 
Were not lock'd with a key which Fate keeps for 

our sake ? 
If the dead could return, or the corpses awake ? 

JciHN. 
Nonsense ! 

Alfred. 

Not wholly. The man who gets up 
A tiU'd guest from the banquet, and drains off his 

cup. 
Sees the last lamp extinguish'd with cheerfulness, 

goes 
Well contented to bed. and enjoys its repose. 
But he who hath supp'd at the tables of kings, 
And yet starved in the sight of lu.\urious things ; 




^ 



Ask'd if he had nothing that weigh'd on his mind : 
" Well, . . . no." . . . says Lothario. " I think not. 

I f^nd, 
On reviewing my life, which in most things was 

pleasant. 
I never neglected, when once it was present. 
An occasion of pleasing myself. On the whole, 
I have naught to regret :" . . . and so, smiling, his 

soul 
Took its tiight from this world. 



Which is best .■■ 



Alfred. 

Well. Regret or Remorse, 



John. 
Why, Regret. 

Alfred 

No ; Remorse, Jack, of course 
For the one is related, be sure, to the other. 
Regret is a spiteful old maid : but her brother, 
Remorse, though a widower certainly, yet 
Has been wed to young Pleasure. Dear Jack, hang 
Regret ! 
' John. 

Bref ! you mean. then, to go ? 

Alfred. 

Bref! I do. 

John. 

One word . . . stay ! 
Are you really in lo\e with Matilda ? 



.Alfred. 
What a question I Of course. 



Love, eh ? 



l.^-^ 



John. 



" The priest nv His bed." 

Who hath watch'd the wine flow, by himself but 

half tasted. 
Heard the music, and yet miss'd the tunc ; who 

hath wasted 
One part of life's grand possibilities ; — friend, 
That man will bear with him, be sure, to t-Ke end, 
A blighted experience, a rancor within ; 
You may call it a virtue, I call it a sin. 

John. 

I see you remember the cvnical story 
Of that wicked old piece of Experience — a hoary 
Lothario, whom dying, the jjriest by his bed 
(Knowing well the unprincipled life he had led. 
And obser\'ing. with no small amount of surprise, 
Resignation and calm in the old sinner's eyes) 



With Mada 



de N 



]]'n-e you reallv in love 



ame de INevers : 



Never really. 



Alfred. 
A\'hat ; Lucile ? No, by Jove. 

John. 
She 's pretty ? 

Alfred. 

Decidedly so. 
At least, so she was, some ten summers ago. 
As soft, and as sallow as Autumn — with hair 
Neither black, nor vet brown, but that tinge which 

the air 
Takes at eve in September, when night lingers lone 
Through a vineyard, from beams of a slow-setting 
sun. 



I.UCILE. 



II 



Eyes — the wistful q-azrllc's ; the fine foot of ;i 
faiiy ; 

And a hand fit a fay's wand to wave, — white and 
airy ; 

A voice soft and sweet as a tune tliat one 
knows. 

Somethin;4 in her tht-re was, set you thinking 
of those 

Strange backgrounds of Raphael . . . that hec- 
tic and deep 

Brief twilight in which southt-rn suns fall asleep. 



Coquette ■ 



John. 
Alfred. 



Not at all. 'T was her one fault. Not she ! 
I had loved her the better, had she less loved nie. 
The heart of a man 's like that delicate weed 
Which rec[uires to be trampled on, boldly indeed. 
Ere it give forth the fragrance you wish to extract. 
'T is a simile, trust ine. if not new, exact. 

J(JHN. 

W'cjnien change so. 

Alfred. 
Of course. 

John*. 

And, unless rumor errs, 
I believe that, last year, the Comtesse de Nevers* 
Was at Baden the rage — held an absolute court 
Of devoted adorers, and really made sport 
Of her subjects. 

Alfred. 

Indeed ! 

John. 

When she broke off with you 
Her engagement, her heart did not break with it ? 

Alfred. 

Pooh ! 
Pray would you have had her dress always in black, 
And shut herself up in a convent, dear jack ? 
Besides, 't was my fault the engagement was broken. 

JOHX. 
Most likely. How was it ?. 

* O Shakespeare ! how couldst ihoii ask ** What 's in a name ?' 
^T is the devil 's in it, when a bard has to frame 
English rhymes for alliance with names that are French : 
And in the>e rhymes of mine, well 1 know that 1 trench 
All too far on that license which critics refuse. 
With just right, to accord to a well-brought-up Muse. 
Yet, tho' faulty the union, in many a line, 
'Twixt my Brilish-born verse and my French heroine, 
Since, however auspiciously wedded they be, 
There is many a pair that yet cannot agree. 
Your forgiveness for this pair, the author invites, 
Whom necessity, not inclination, unites, j 




She's i-retty. 



.A.LFRED. 



The tale is soon spoken. 
She bored me. I show'd it. She saw it. 

What next ? 
She reproach'd. I retorted. Of course 
she was vex'd. 
I was vex'^l that she was so. She sulk'd. So did I. 
If I ask'd her to sing, she look'd ready to cr>-. 
I was contrite, submissive. Shesoften'd. I harden'd. 
.Jit noon I was banish'd. .-Xt eve I was pardon 'd. 
She said I had no heart. I said she had no reason. 
I swore she talk'd nonsense. She sobb'd 1 talk'd 

treason. 
In short, mv dear fellow, 't was time, as yousee. 
Things should come to a crisis, and finish. 'T was 

she 
By whom to that crisis the matter was brought. 
She released me. 1 linger'd. I linger'd, she thought, 
With too sullen an aspect. This gave me, of course, 
The occasion to flv in a rage, mount my horse, 
.■Vnd declare mvself uncomprehended. And so 
We parted. The rest of the story you know. 



No, indeed. 



John. 



Alfred. 



Well, we parted. Of course we could not 
Continue to meet, as before, in one spot. 
You conceive it was awkward .' Even Don Ferdi- 

nando 
Can do, you remember, no more than he can do. 
I think that I acted exceedingly well. 
Considering the time when this rupture befell. 
For Paris was charming just then. It deranged 
All mv plans for the winter. I ask'd to be changed— 
Wrott- for Naples, then vacant— obtain 'd it— and so 
Join'd my new post at once ; but scarce reach'd it, 

when lo ! 
My first news from Paris informs me Lucile 
Isill, and in danger. Conceive what I feel. 



12 



l.UCILE. 



I fly back. I find her recover'd. but yet 

Looking jjale. I am seized with a contrite regret ; 



John. 

And she ? 
Alfred. 
Reflects, but decUnes. We part, swearing to be 
Friends ever, friends only. All that sort of thing ! 
We each keep our letters ... a portrait ... a ring. . . 
With a pledge to return them whenever the one 
Or the other shall call for them back. 



John. 



Alfred. 



Pra\' go on. 



My story is finish'd. Of course I enjoin 
On Lucile all those thousand good maxims we coin 
To supply the grim deficit found in our da\s. 
When Love leaves them bankru])t. I preach. .She 

obeys. 
She goes out in the world ; takes to dancing once 

more, — 
A pleasure she rarely indulged in before. 
I go back to my post, and collect (I must own 
'T is a taste 1 had never before, my dear John) 
Antiques and small Elzevirs. Heigho ! now. Jack, 
You know all. 

lotiti {afler a pause). 
You are reallv resolved to go back } 



Eh, where ? 



Alfred. 



John. 



To that worst of all places — the past. 
You remember loot's wife ? 

Alfred. 

'T was a promise when last 
We parted. My honor is pledged to it. 



Well 



John. 
What is it you wish me to do ? 

Alfred. 

You must tell 
Matilda, I meant to have call'd — to leave word- 
To explain — but the time was so pressing — 



John. 



Mv lord. 



Your lordship's obedient I I really can't do 

Alfred. 
You wish then to break off mv marriage } 



John. 

No. no ! 
But indeed I can't see why yourself you need take 
These letters. 

Alfred. 

Not see ? would you have me, then, break 
A [irDmise mv honor is pledged to } 



John (humming). 
And aioav ! said t/n- stranger" . . 



" ojr. off. 



Alfred. 

Oh, good ! oh, vou scoff ! 



John. 
At what, mv dear Alfred .' 



Alfred. 

At all things ! 
John. 
Alfred. 



Indeed ? 



Yes ; I see that your heart is as dry as a reed : 
That the dew of your youth is rubb'd off you : I sec 
You have no feeling left in you, even for me ! 
At honor vou jest ; you are cold as a stone 
To the warm voice of friendship. Belief you have 

none ; 
You ha\-e lost faith in all things. You carp,- a blight 
About with vou everywhere. Yes, at the sight 
Of such callous indifference, who could be calm ? 
I must leave vou at once. Jack, or else the last balm 
That is left me in Gilead you '11 turn into gall. 
Heartless, cold, unconcern 'd . . . 

John. 

Have vou done ? Is that all ? 
Well, [hen, listen to me ! I presume when you made 
Up vour min ;1 to projiose to Miss Darcy, you weigh'd 
All the drawbacks against the equivalent gains. 
Ere you finally settled the point. What remains 
But to stick to your choice ? You want money ; 't is 

here. 
A settled position : 't is yours. A career : 
You secure it. A wife, young, and pretty as rich. 
Whom all men will envy you. Why must you itch 
To be running away, on the eve of all this. 
To a woman whom never for once did you miss 
All these years since you left her? Who knows 

what may hap ? 
This letter — to me — is a palpable trap. 
The woman has changed since you knew her. Per- 
chance 
She vet seeks to renew her youth's broken lo- 

mance. 
When women begin to feel youth and their beauty 
Slip from them, they count it a sort of a duty 



LUCILE. 



13 



To let nothing else slip away unsecured 

AVhich these, while they lasted, might once have 

procured. 
Lucile 's a coquette to the end of her lingers, 
I will stake my last farthing. Perhaps the wish 

lingers 
To recall the once reckless, indifferent lover 
To the feet he has left ; let intrigue now recover 
What truth could not keep. 'T were a vengeance, 

no doubt — 
A triumph ; — but whv mustj'tw bring it about .' 
You are risking the substance of all that you 

schemed 
To obtain ; and for what ? some mad dream you 

have dream 'd. 

Alfred. 

But there 's nothing to risk. You exaggerate. Jack. 
You mistake. In three days, at the most, I am back. 

John. 

Ay, but how .-'... discontented, unsettled, upset. 
Bearing with you a comfortless twinge of regret ; 
Preoccupied, sulky, and likely enough 
To make your betroth'd break off all in a huff. 
Three days, do you say .' }3ut in three days who 

knows 
What may happen ? I tlon't. nor do you, 1 sujjpose. 



Of all the good things in this good world around us. 
The one most abundantly furnish'd and found us. 
And which, for that reason, we least care about, 
And can best spare our friends, is good counsel, 

no doubt. 
But advice, when 'tis sought from a friend (though 

civility 
May forbid to avow it), means mere liability 
In the bill we already have drawn on Remorse, 
Which we deem that a true friend is bound to in- 
dorse. 
A mere lecture on debt from that friend is a bore. 

Thus, the better his cousin's advice was, the more 
Alfred Vargrave with angry resentment opposed it. 
And, having the worst of the contest, he closed it 
With so firm a resolve his bad ground to maintain 
That, sa^'ly perceiving resistance was vain. 
And argument fruitless, the amiable Jack 
Came to terms, and assisted his cousin to pack 
A slender valise (the one small condescension 
Which his final remonstrance obtain'dj, whose di- 
mension 
E.xcluded large outfits ; and, cursing his stars, he 
Shook hands with his friend and return 'd to Miss 
Darcv. 



Lord Alfred, when last to the window he turn'd. 
Ere he lock'd up and quitted his chamber, discern'd 




Matilda ride by, with her cheek beaming bright 
In what \'irgil has call'd ' Youth's ])urpureal light ' 
(I like the expression, and can't find a better). 
He sigh'd as he look'd at her. Did he regret her? 
In her habit and 

hat, with her 

glad golden 

hair. 
As airy and blithe 

as a blithe bird 

in air. 
And her arch rosy 

lips, and her 

eager blue eyes. 
With their little 

impertinent 

look of sur- 

prise. 
And her round 

youthful figure, 

and fair neck, 

below 
The dark droop- 
ing feather, as 

radiant as 

snow, — 
I can only declare, that if / had the chance 
Of passing three days in the exquisite glance 
Of those eyes, or caressing the hand that now 

petted 
That fine English mare, I should much have re- 
gretted 
Whatever might lose me one little half-hour 
Of a jjastime so pleasant, when once in my power. 
For, if one drop of milk from the bright Milkv 

Way 
Could turn into a woman, 't would look, I dare say. 
Not more fresh than Matilda was looking that 
dav. 

VII. 

But whatever the feeling that prompted the sigh 
With which Alfred X'argrave now watch'd her ride 

by, 
I can only affirm that, in watching her ride. 
As he turn'd from the 'Window, he certainly 

sigh'd. 



** Discern'd Matilda ride bv.' 



CANTO II. 



Letter from Lord Alfred Vargr.wk to 

THE COMTESSE DE NEVERS. 

'* BlCORRE, Tuesday. 

" Your note. Madam, reach'd me to-day, at lii- 
gorre. 

And commands (need I add ?) my oliei'.ience. Be- 
fore 



14 



LUCILE. 



The night I shall be at Luchon — where a line, 
If sent to Duval's, the hotel where I dine. 
Will find me, awaiting your orders. Receive 
My respects. 

" Yours sincerely, 

"A. \'ARGRAVE. 

" I leave 
In an hour." 

II. 

In an hour from the time h ■ wrote this, 
Alfred Vargrave, in tracking a mountain abyss. 
Gave the rein to his steed and his thoughts, and 

pursued. 
In pursuing his course through the blue solitude. 
The reflections that journey gave rise to. 

And here 

(^Hecause, without some 

.such precaution, I fear 

You might fail 

to distinguish 

them each 

from the 

rest 

Of the world 

they belong 

to; whose 

captives are 

drest. 

As our convicts, 

precisely the 

same.oneand 

all. 

While the coat 

cut for Peter 

is pass'd on 

to Paul) 

I resolve, one by one. when I pick from the mass 
The persons I want, as before you thev pass. 
To label them broadly in plain black and w'hite 
On the backs of them. Therefore whilst yet he 's 

in sight, 
I first label my hero. 

III. 

The age is gone o'er 
When a man may in all things be all. We have 

more 
Painters, poets, musicians, and artists, no doubt. 
Than the great Cinquecento gave birth to ; but out 
Of a million of mere dilettanti, when, when 
Will a new Leon.^rdo arise on our ken .' 
He is gone with the age which begat him. Our own 
Is too vast, and too complex, for one man alone 
To embody its purpose, and hold it shut close 
In the palm of his hand. There were giants in 

those 
Irreclaimable days ; but in these davs of ours, 
In dividing the work, we distribute the powers. 
Yet a dwarf on a dead giant's shoulders sees more 
Than the 'live giant's eyesight avail'd to explore ; 




" Pursuing his course through the 
blue solitude." 



And in life's lengthened alphabet what used to be 
To our sires X Y Z is to us A B C. 
.■\ \'anini is roasted alive for his pains. 
But a Bacon comes after and picks up his brains. 
A Bruno is angrily seized by the throttle 
And hunted about by thy ghost, Aristotle. 
Till a More or Lavater step into his place : 
Then the world turns and makes an admiring gri- 
mace. 
Once the men were so great and so few, they ap- 
pear. 
Through a distant Olympian atmosphere. 
Like vast Caryatids upholding the age. 
Now the men are so many and small, disengage 
One man from the million to mark him, next mo- 
ment 
The crowd swee])S him hurriedly out of your com- 
ment : 
.And since we seek vainly (to ])raise in our songs) 
'Mid our fellow-s the size which to heroes belongs, 
We take the whole age for a hero, in want 
Of a better ; and still, in its favor, descant 
On the strength and the beauty which, failing to 

find 
In any one man, we ascribe to mankind. 

IV. 

Alfred Vargrave was one of those men who achieve 
So little, because of the much they conceive. 
With inesolute finger he knock'd at each one 
Of the doonvays of life, and abided in none. 
His course, by each star that would cross it, was set, 
And whatever he did he was sure to regret. 
That target, discuss'd by the travellers of old. 
Which to one appear'd argent, to one appear'd 

gold. 
To him, ever lingering on Doubt's dizzy margent, 
.•\ppear'd in one moment both golden and argent. 
The man who seeks one thing in life, and but one. 
May hope to achieve it before life be done ; 
But he who seeks all things, wherever he goes. 
Only reaps from the hopes which around him he 

sows 
A harvest of barren regrets. And the worm 
That crawls on in the dust to the definite term 
Of its creeping existence, and sees nothing more 
Than the path it pursues till its creeping be o'er, 
In its limited vision, is happier far 
Than the Half-Sage, whose course, fix'd by no 

friendly star, 
Is by each star distracted in turn, and who knows 
Each will still be as distant where\'er he goes. 



Both brilliant and brittle, both bold and unstable. 

Indecisive yet keen, Alfred \'argrave seem'd able 

To dazzle, but not to illumine mankind. 

A vigorous, various, versatile mind ; 

A character wavering, fitful, uncertain. 

As the shadow that shakes o'er a luminous curtain. 



LUCILE. 



15 




J 






\'ague, flitting, but on it for- 
ever impressing 
The shape of some sulistance 
at which you stand guess- 
ing : 
When you said. "' All is 
worthless and weak here," 
behold ! 
Into sight on a sudden there 

seem'd to unfold 
Great outlines of strenuous 
"The frost of the truth in the man : 
world's wintrv wis- When you said, " This is ge- 
'"""■' nius," the outlines grew 

wan. 
And his life, though in all things so gifted and 

skill'd. 
Was, at best, but a promise which nothing fultill'd. 



In the budding of youth, ere wild winds can de- 
flower 
The shut leaves of man's life, round the germ of his 

power 
Yet folded, his life had been earnest. Alas ! 
In that life one occasion, one moment, there was 
When this earnestness might, with the life-sap of 

youth. 
Lusty fruitage have borne in his manhood's full 

■growth : 
But it found him too soon, when his nature was still 
The delicate toy of too pliant a will. 
The boisterous wind of the world'to resist. 
Or the frost of the world's wintry wisdom. 

He miss'd 
That occasion, too rathe in its advent. 

Since then. 
He had made it a law, in his commerce with men. 
That intensity in him, which only left sore 
The heart it disturb'd, to repel and ignore. 

And thus, as some Prince by his subjects deposed. 

Whose strength he, by seeking to crush it, dis- 
closed, 

In resigning the ])ower he lack'd ]3ower to su])i)ort. 

Turns his back upon courts, with a sneer at the 
court. 



In his converse this man for self-comfort apjjeal'd 
To a cynic denial of all he conceal'd 
In the instincts and feelings belied by his words. 
Words, however, are things : and the man who 

accords 
To his language the license to outrage his soul. 
Is controU'd by the words he disdains to control. 
And, therefore, he seem'd in the deeds of each day, 
The light code proclaim'd on his lips to obey ; 
And, the slave of each whim, follow'd wilfully aught 
That perchance fool'd the fancy, or flatter'd the 

thought. 
Yet. indeed, deep within him, the spirits of truth, 
\'ast, vague aspirations, the powers of his youth. 
Lived and breathed, and made moan — stirr'd them- 
selves — strove to start 
Into deeds — though deposed, in that Hades, his 

heart. 
Like those antique Theogonies ruin'd and hurl'd 
Under clefts of the hills, which, con\ulsing the 

world. 
Heaved, in earthquake, their heads the rent caverns 

above. 
To trouble at times in the light court of Jove 
All its frixolous gods, with an undefined awe. 
Of wrong'd rebel powers that own'd not their law. 
For his sake, I am fain to believe that, if born 
To some lowlier rank ( from the world's languid scorn 
Secured by the world's stern resistance), where 

strife. 
Strife and toil, and not pleasure, gave purpose to life. 
He possibly might have contrived to attain 
Not eminence only, but worth. So. again. 
Had he been of his own house the first-born, each 

gift 
Of a mind man\-gifted had gone to u|3lift 
A great name by a name's greatest uses. 

But there 
He stood isolated, opposed, as it were, 
To life's great realities ; part of no plan ; 
And if ever a nobler and happier man 
He might hope to become, that alone could be when 
With all that is real in life and in men 
What was real in him should have been recon- 
ciled ; 
When each influence now from experience exiled 
Should have seized on his being, combined with his 

nature. 
And forni'd, as by fusion, a new human creature : 
As when those airy elements viewless to sight 
(The amalg.mi of which, if our science be right. 
The germ of this populous planet doth fold) 
Unite in the glass of the chemist, behold I 
Where a void seem'd before, there a substance 

appears. 
From the fusion of forces whence issued the spheres! 



But the iiermanent cause why his life f.iil'd and 

miss'd 
The full value of life was. — where man should resist 



i6 



LUCILE. 



The world, which man's crenius is call'd to com- 
mand, 
He gave way, less from lack of the power to with- 
stand, 
Than from lack of the resolute will to retain 
Those strongholds of life which the world strives to 

gain. 
Let this character go in the old-fashion'd way. 
With the moral thereof tightly tack'd to it. Say — 
" Let any man once show the world that he feels 
Afraid of its bark, and 't will fly at his heels ; 
Let him fearlessly face it, 't will leave him alone : 
But 't will fawn at his feet if he flings it a bone." 

VIII. 

The moon of September, now half at the full. 
Was unfolding from darkness and dreamland the lull 
Of the quiet blue air. where the many-faced hills 
W'atch'd, well-)5leased, their fair slaxes, the light, 

foam-footed rills. 
Dance and sing down the steep marble stairs of 

their courts. 
And gracefully fashion a thousand sweet sports. 

Lord Alfred (bv 

•..^ ™— — ■■— I this on his jour- 
neying far) 
Was pensively 
]5ufhng his Lo- 
pez cigar. 
And brokenly 
h u m m i n g an 
old opera strain. 
And thinking, per- 
' chance, of those 
castles in Spain 
Which that long 
rocky barrier hid 
from his sight ; 
4.J When suddenly, out 
of the neighboring 
night, 
A . horseman emerged 
from a fold of the hill. 
And so startled his steed, 
that was winding at 
will 
Up the thin, dizzy strip of a pathway which led 
O'er the mountain — the reins on its neck, and its 

head 
Hanging lazily forward — that, but for-a hand 
Light and ready, yet firm, in familiar command. 
Both rider and horse might have been in a trice 
Hurl'd horribly over the grim precipice. 

IX. 

As soon as the moment's alarm had subsided. 
And the oath, with which nothing can find unpro- 
vided 
A thoroughbred Englishman, safely exploded. 
Lord Alfred unbent (as Apollo his bow did 




"And thinking, perch.ance, 
of those castles in spain." 



Now and then) his erectness ; and looking, not ruder 
Than such inroad would warrant, sur\-ey'd the in- 
truder. 
Whose arrival so nearly cut short in his glor)- 
My hero, and finish'd abruptlv this storv. 



The stranger, a man of his own age or less. 

Well mounted, and simple though rich in his dress. 

Wore his beard and mustache in the fashion of 

France. 
His face, which was pale, gather'd force from the 

glance 
Of a pair of dark, vivid, and eloquent eyes. 
With a gest of apologv, touch'd with surprise. 
He lifted his hat. bow'd and courteouslv made 
Some excuse in such well-cadenced French as be- 
tray 'd. 
At the first word he spoke, the Parisian. 

XI. 

I swear 
I have wander'd about in the world ever)-where ; 
From many strange mouths have heard many 

strange tongues ; 
Strain'd with many strange idioms my lips and my 

lungs ; 
Walk'd in many a far land, regretting my own ; 
In many a language groan'd many a groan ; 
And have often had reason to curse those wild 

fellows 
Who built the high house at which Heaven turn'd 

jealous. 
Making human audacity stumble and stammer 
When seized by the throat in the hard gripe of 

Grammar. 
But the language of languages dearest to me 
Is that in which once, O ma totite chirie. 
When, together, we bent o'er your nosegay for 

hours, 
You explain'd what was silently said by the flowers, 
And, selecting the sweetest of all, sent a flame 
Through my heart, as, in laughing, you murmur'd 

Jc t' aiiiii:. 

XII. 

The Italians have voices like peacocks; the Spanish 
Smell, 1 fancy, of garlic ; the Swedish and Danish 
Have something too Runic, too rough and un- 
shod, in 
Their accent for mouths not descended from 

Odin ; 
German gives me a cold in the head, sets me wheez- 
ing 
And coughing ; and Russian is nothing but sneez- 
ing ; 
But, by Belus and Babel ! I never have heard. 
And I never shall hear (I well know it), one word 
Of that delicate idiom of Paris without 
Feeling morally sure, beyond question or doubt, 





' Do VOU GO TO LlXHON ?" 



IS 



LUCILE. 



By the wild way in which my heart inwardly rtut- 
ter'd. 

That my heart's native tongue to my heart had been 
utter'tl ; 

And whene'er I hear French spoken as I ap- 
prove, 

I feel myself quietly falling in love. 

XIII. 

Lord Alfred, on hearing the stranger, appeased 
By a something, an accent, a cadence, which 

pleased 
His ear with that pledge of good breeding which 

tells 
At once of the world in whose fellowship dwells 
The speaker that owns it, was glad to remark 
In the horseman a man one might meet after dark 
Without fear. 

And thus, not disagreeably impress'd. 
As it seeni'd, with each other, the two men abreast 
Rode on slowly a moment. 



XIV. 
Stranger. 



,-\ smoker. Allow me ! 



I see, Sir, you are 



.-Vlfrem. 

Pray take a cigar. 

Stranger. 

Many thanks ! . . . Such cigars are a lu.xuiy here. 
Uo you go to Luchon ? 

Alfred. 

Yes ; and you ? 

Stranger. 

Yes. I fear. 
Since our road is the same, that our journey must 

be 
Somewhat closer than is our acquaintance. You see 
How narrow the path is. I'm tempted to ask 
Your permission to finish (no difficult task !) 
The cigar you have given me (really a prize 1) 
In your company. 

Alfred. 

Charm'd, Sir, to find your road lies 
In the way of my own inclinations ! Indeed 
The dream of your nation I find in this weed. 
In the distant Savannahs a talisman grows 
That makes all men brothers that use it . . . who 

knows ? 
That blaze which erewhile from the Bouh'-tiart out- 
broke, 
It has ended where wisdom begins, Sir, — in smoke. 
Messieurs Lopez (whatever your publicists write) 
Have done mere in their way human kind to unite. 
Perchance, than ten Prudhons. 



Stranger. 

Yes. .Ah, what a scene ! 

Alfred. 

Humph I Nature is here too pretentious. Her 

mien 
Is too haughty. One likes to be coax'd, not coni- 

pell'd, ■ 
To the notice such beauty resents if withheld. 
She seems to be saying too plainly, " Admire me !" 
And I answer, " Yes, madam, I do : but you tire 

me." 

Stranger. 

That sunset, just now though . . . 

Alfred. 

.A. very old trick ! 
One would think that the sun by this time must be 

sick , 

Of blushing at what, by this time, he must know 
Too well to be shock'd by — this world. 

Stranger. 

Ah, 't is so 
With us all. 'T is the sinner that best knew the 

world 
At twenty, whose lip is. at sixty, most curl'd 
With disdain of its follies. You stay at Luchon .' 



A day or two only. 



Already 



.Alfred. 

Stranger. 

The seasen is done. 

Alfred. 

Stranger. 

'T was shorter this year than the last. 
Folly soon wears her shoes out. She dances so 

fast. 
We are all of us tired. 

.Alfred. 

You know the place well } 

Stranger. 
I have been there two seasons. 

Alfred. 

Pray who is the belle 
Of the Baths at this moment ? 

Stranger. 

The same who has been 
The belle of all places in which she is seen ; 
The belle of all Paris last winter ; last spring 
The belle of all Baden. 



LUCII.E. 



19 



Alfred. 

An uncomniim tiling ! 

Stranger. 
Sir, an uncommon beauty! . • • I rather should say, 
An uncommon character. Truly, each day 
One meets women whose beauty is equal to hers. 
But none with the charm of Lucile de Nevers. 



.\LFRED. 



Madame de Nevert 



Str.\NGER. 

Do vou know her ? 

.Alfred. 



I know. 



Or, rather, I knew her — a long time ago. 
1 almost forget. . . . 

Stranger. 

What a wit ! what a grace 
In her language ! her movements ! what play in her 

face ! 
And yet what a sadness she seems to conceal ! 

Alfred. 
Yuu speak like a lover. 

Stranger. 

I speak as I feel. 
But not like a lover. What interests me so 
In Lucile, at the same time forbids me, I know, 
To give to that interest, whate'er the sensation. 
The name we men give to an hour's admiration, 
A night's passing passion, an actress's eyes, 
A dancing girl's ankles, a fine lady's sighs. 

Alfred. 
Yes, I quite comprehend. Hut this sadness— this 

shade 
Which you speak of ? . . . it almost would make 

me afraid 
Your gay countrj'men. Sir. less adroit must have 

grown, 
Since when, as a stripling, at Paris, I own 
I found in them terrible rivals, — if yet 
They have all lack'd the skill to console this regret 
(If regret be the word I should usel, or fulfil 
This desire (if desire b- the word), which seems 

still 
To endure unappeased. For I take it for granted. 
From all that you say, that the will was not wanted. 

XV. 

The stranger replied, not without irritation : 
"I have heard that an Englishman — one of yur 
nation. 










I presume — 

and if so, 

I must beg 

you, in- 
deed, 
To excuse 

the c o n - 

t e m p t 

which I . . . 

Alfred. 

Pray, Sir. 

proceed 

AVith your 

tale. My 

c o m p a - -'^^ ■'■'*l 

triot, what ''4'^.,>:.,.'3-" '''' 

was his 

crime? "Throlgh a garden of FLOWEKS." 

Stranger. 

Oh, nothing ! His folly was not so sublime 

As to merit that term. If I blamed him just now. 

It was not for the sin, but the silliness. 






Alfred. 
Stranger. 



How ? 



1 own I hate Botanv. Still, ... I admit, 
.\lthough I mvself have no passion for it. 
And do not understand, yet I cannot despise 
The cold man of science, who walks with his eyes 
All alert through a garden of flowers, and strips 
The lilies' gold tongues, and the roses' red lips, 
With a ruthless dissection ; since he, I suppose. 
Has some purpose beyond the mere mischief he 

does. 
But the stupid and mischievous boy, that uproots 
The exotics, and tramples the tender young shoots. 
For a boy's brutal iiastime, and only because 
He knows no distinction 'twixt heartsease and 

haws, — 
One would wish, for the sake 

nipp'd. 
To catch the young rascal and h 

whinn'd I 



of each nursling so 
ave him well 



20 



LUCILE. 



Alfred. 

Some compatriot of mine, do 1 then understand. 
With a cold Northern heart, and a rude Eng^lish 

hand. 
Has injured your rosebud of France.^ 

Stra.\u;er. 

Sir. I know 
But little, or nothing. Yet some faces show 
The last act of a tragedy in their regard : 
Though the first scenes be wanting, it yet is not 

hard 
To divine, more or less, what the plot may have 

been, 
And what sort of actors have pass'd o'er the scene. 
And whenever 1 gaze on the face of Lucile. 
With its pensive and passionless languor, f feel 
That some feeling hath burnt there . . . burnt out. 

and burnt up 
Health and hope. .So you feel when you gaze down 

the cup 
Of extinguish'd volcanoes : you judge of the fire 
Once there, by the ravage you see ; — the desire 
By the apathy left in its wake, and that sense 
Of a moral, immovable, mute impotence. 

Alfred. 

Humph ! . . . I see you have rinish'd, at last, your 

cigar. 
Can I offer another ? 

Str.-^xger. 

Xo. thank you. We are 
Not two miles from Luchon. 

Alfred. 

You know the road well ? 

Stran(_;er. 
I have often been over it. 

XVI. 

Here a pause fell 
On their converse. Still musingly on, side bv side, 
In the moonlight, the two men continued to ride 
Down the dim mountain pathway. But each, for 

the rest 
Of their journey, although they still rode on abreast, 
Continued to follow in silence the train 
Of the different feelings that haunted his brain ; 
And each, as though roused from a deep reveiy, 
Almost shouted, descending the mountain, to see 
Burst at once on the moonlight the silvery Baths. 
The long lime-tree alley, the dark gleaming paths, 
With the lamps twinkling through them — the quaint 

wooden roofs — 
The little white houses. 

The clatter of hoofs, 



.And the music of wandering bands, up the walls 
Of the steep hanging hill, at remote intervals 
Reach'd them, cross'd by the sound of the clacking 

of whips ; 
And here and there, faintly, through serpentine 

slips 
Of verdant rose-gardens, decp-shelter'd with 

screens 
Of airy acacias and dark evergreens. 
They could mark the white dresses, and catch the 

light songs. 
Of the lovely Parisians that wander'd in throngs. 
Led by Laughter and Love through the cold even- 

'tide 
Down the dream-haunted vallev, or up the hillside. 



At length, at the door of the inn THerlS-Sox, 

(Prav go there, if ever you go to Luchon !) 

The two horsemen, well pleased to have reach'd it, 

alighted 
And exchanged their last greetings. 

The Frenchman invited 
Lord .Alfred to dinner. Lord Alfred declined. 
He had letters to write, and felt tired. So he dined 
In his own rooms that night. 

With an unquiet eye 
He watch'd his companion depart; nor knew why, 
Bevond all accountable reason or measure. 
He felt in his breast such a sovran displeasure. 
" The fellow 's good-looking," he murmur'd at last, 
" And yet not a coxcomb." Some ghost of the past 
Ve.x'd him still. 

" If he love her," he thought, " let him win her." 
Then he turn'd to the future — and order'd his din- 
ner. 

xviu. 

O hour of all hours, the most bless'd upon earth. 
Blessed hour of our dinners I 

The land of his birth ; 
The face of his first love ; the bills that he owes ; 
The twaddle of friends and the venom of foes ; 
The sermon he heard when to church he last 

went ; 
The money he borrow'd. the money he spent ; — 
All of these things a man, I believe, may forget, 
.And not be the worse for forgetting ; but yet 
Never, never, oh never ! earth's luckiest sinner 
Hath unpunish'd forgotten the hour of his dinner ! 
Indigestion, that conscience of every bad stomach. 
Shall relentlessly gnaw and pursue him with some 

ache 
Or some pain ; and trouble, remorseless, his best 

ease, 
.As the Furies once troubled the sleep of Orestes. 



We mav live without poetiy, music, and art ; 
We mav live without conscience, and live without 
heart ; 



WITH A LADY THAT LEAN'D ON HIS ARM, 

LIKE A QUEEN IN A FABLE OF OLD FAIRY DAYS. 

Painted bv Tboiius Mcllvjiiie. 




COPVRIGMT 1693 BY FREDERICK A STOKES COMPANY 



LUCILE. 



21 



We may live without friends ; we may live without 
books ; 

But civilized man cannot live without cooks. 

He may live without hooks, — what is knowledge 
but grievinjj ? 

He mav live without hope, — what is ho])e but de- 
ceiving ? 

He mav live without love. — what is passion but 
pining? 

But where is the man that can live without dining? 

XX. 

Lord Alfred found, waiting his coming, a note 
From Lucile. 

" Your .last letter has reach 'd me," she wrote. 
" This evening, alas 1 I must go to the ball. 
And shall not be at home till too late for your call ; 
But to-morrow, at any rate, Stins fault-, at One 
You will find nie at home, and will find me alone. 
Meanwhile, let me th,ink you sincerely, milord. 
For the honor with which vou adhere to your word. 
Yes, I thank vou. Lord .-Mfred ! To-morrow then. 

"L." 
XXI. 

I find myself terribly puzzled to tell 

The feelings with which Alfred \'argrave flung 

down 
This note, as he pour'd out his wine. I must own 
That I think he. himself, could have hardly explain'd 
Those feelings exactly. 

" Yes. yes," as he drain'd 
The glass down, hemutter'd, "Jack 's right, after all. 
The coquette !" 

•' Does milord mean to go to the ball ?" 
Ask'd the waiter, who linger'd, 

" Perhaps. 1 don't know. 
You may keep me a ticket, in case I should go." 



Oh, better, no doubt, is a dinner of herbs. 
When season'd by love, which no rancor disturbs. 
And sweeten'd by all that is sweetest in life. 
Than turbot, bisque, ortolans, eaten in strife ! 
But if, out of humor, and hungry, alone, 
A man should sit down to a dinner, each one 
Of the dishes of which the cook chooses to spoil 
With a horrible mixture of garlic .ind oil. 
The chances are ten against one, 1 must own, 
He gets up as ill-temjier'd as when he sat down. 
And if any reader this fact to dispute is 
Disposed, I say ..." Allium eilat ctatlts 
Noienlius .'" 

Over the fruit and the wine 
LIndisturb'd the wasp settled. The evening was fine. 
Lord .Alfred his chair by the window ha<l set. 
And languidly lighted his small cigarette. 
The window was open. The warm air without 
Waved the flame of the candles. The moths were 

about. 
In the gloom he sat gloomy. 




' Civilized man cannot i.i\ e with- 
oeT COOKS." 



XXIII. 

Gay sounds from below 
Floated up like f.iint echoes of joys long ago. 
And night deepen 'd apace ; through the dark 

avenues 
The lamps twinkled bright ; and by threes, and by 

twos. 
The idlers of Luchon 
were strolling at 
will. 
As Lord Alfred 
could see from the 
cool window-sill. 
Where his gaze, as 
he languidly 
turn'd it, fell o'er 
His late travelling 
companion, now 
passing before 
The inn, at the win- 
dow of which he 
still sat. 
In full toilet, — boots 
var nish 'd, and 
snowy cra\'at, 
Gayly smoothing 
and buttoning a 
yellow kid glove. 
As he turn'd down the avenue. 

Watching above, 
From his window, the stranger, who stopp'd as he 

walk'd 
To nii.x with those groups, and now nodded, now 

talk'd. 
To the young Paris dandies. Lord .-Mfred dis- 

cern'd. 
By the way hats were lifted, and glances were 

turn'd. 
That this unknown acquaintance, now hound for 

the ball. 
Was a person of rank or of fashion ; for all 
Whom he bow'd to in passing, or stopp'd with and 

chatter'd, 
Walk'd on with a look which implied ..." I feel 
flatter'd I" 

XXIV. 

His form was soon lost in the distance and gloom. 



XXV. 

Lord Alfred still sat by himself in his room. 
He had finish'd. one after the other, a dozen 
Or more cigarettes. He had thought of his cousin : 
He had thought of Matilda, and thought of Lu- 
cile : 
He had thought about many things ; thought a 

great deal 
Of himself : of his past life, his future, his present : 
He had thought of the moon, neither full moon nor 
crescent : 



22 



LUCILE. 



Of the gav world, so sad ! life, so sweet and so 

sour ! 
He had thought, too, of glory, and fortune, and 

power : 
Thought of love, and the countiy, and sympathy, and 
A poet's asylum in some distant land : 
Thought of man in the abstract, and woman, no 

doubt, 
In particular; also he had thought much about 
His digestion, his debts, and his dinner; and last. 
He thought that the night would be stupidly 

pass'd 
If he thought any more of such matters at all : 
.So he rose, and resolved to set out for the ball. 

XXVI. 

I believe, ere he finish'd his tardy toilet 

That Lord Alfred had spoil'd, ,iiid llung' by in a 

pet. 
Half a dozen white neckcloths, and look'd for the 

nonce 
Twenty times in the glass, if he look'd in it once. 
I believe that he split up. in drawing them on. 
Three pairs of pale lavender gloves, one by one. 
And this is the reason, no doubt, that at last. 
When he reach'd the Casino, although he walk'd 

fast. 
He heard, as he hurriedly enter'd the door. 
The church clock strike twelve, 

XXVII. 

The last waltz was just o'er. 
The chaperons and dancers were all in a flutter. 
.\ crowd block'd the door ; and a buzz and a mut- 
ter 
Went about in the room as a voung man. whose 

face 
Lord Alfred had seen ere he enter'd that place. 
But a few hours ago, through the perfumed and 

warm 
Flowery porch, with a lady that lean'd on his arm 
Like a queen in a fable of old fairy days, 
Left the ballroom. 

\XVIII. 

The hubbub of comment and praise 
Reach'd Lord Alfred as just then he enter'd. 

"Ma foi r 
S.iid a Frenchman beside him, , . , '• That lucky 

Luvois 
Has obtain'd all the gifts of the gods . . . rank and 

wealth. 
And good looks, and then such inexhaustible 

health I 
He that hath shall have more ; and this truth. I 

surmise. 
Is the cause why. to-night, bv the beautiful eyes 
Of la charinante Lucile more distinguish'd than 

all, 
He so gayly goes off with the belle of the ball." 
" Is it true," ask'd a lady aggressively fat, 



Who, fierce as a female Leviathan, sat 
By another that look'd like a needle, all steel 
And tenuity — " Luvois will marry Lucile .'" 
The needle seem'd jerk'd by a virulent twitch, 
.■\s though it were bent upon driving a stitch 
Through somebody's character. 

■' Madam," replied. 
Interposing, a young man who sat by their side. 
And was languidly fanning his face with his hat, 
" I am ready to bet my new TilbuiT that. 
If Luvois has proposed, the Comtesse has refused." 
The fat and thin ladies were highly amused. 
" Refused ! . . . what ! a young Duke, not thirtv, 

my dear. 
With at least half a million (what is it ?) a year !" 
" That may be," said the third ; " yet 1 know some 

time since 
Castelmar was refused, though as rich, and a 

Prince. 
But Luvois, who was never before in his life 
In love with a woman who was not a wife, 
Is now certainlv serious." 



The music once more 



Recommenced. 



XXX. 



Said Lord Alfred. " This ball is a bore !" 
And return'd to the inn, somewhat worse than be- 
fore. 

XXXI. 

There, whilst musing he lean'd the dark valley 

above, 
Through the warm land were wand'ring the spirits 

of love. 
A soft breeze in the white window drapery stirr'd ; 
In the hlossom'd acacia the lone cricket chirr'd ; 
The scent of the roses fell faint o'er the night. 
And the moon on the mountain was dreaming in 

light. 
Repose, and yet rapture ! that pensive wild nature 
Impregnate with passion in each breathing feature I 
A stone's throw from thence, through the large 

lime-trees peep'd 
In a garden of roses, a white chalet, steep'd 
In the moonbeams. The windows oped down to 

the lawn ; 
The casements were open ; the curtains were 

drawn ; 
Lights stream'd from the inside ; and with them 

the sound 
Of music and song. In the garden, around 
A table with fruits, wine, tea, ices, there set. 
Half a dozen young men and young women were 

met. 
Light, laughter, and voices, and music, all stream'd 
Through the quiet-leaved limes. At the window 

there seem'd 
For one moment the outline, familiar and fair. 



LUCILE. 



23 



Of a white dress, a white neck, and soft dusky- 
hair, 

Which Lord Alfred remember'd ... a moment 
or so 

It hover"d, then pass'd into shadow ; and slow 

The soft notes, from a tender piano updung. 

Floated forth, and a voice unforgotten thus sung : — 

" Hear a song that was born in the land of my birth ! 
The anchors are lifted, the fair ship is free. 
And the shout of the mariners floats in its mirth 
'Twixt the light in the sky and the light on the 
sea. 




"And slow the soft notes kbom a tender piano i-pflung." 

" .And this ship is a world. She is freighted with 
souls. 
She is freighted with merchandise : proudly she 
sails 
With the Labor that stores, and the Will that con- 
trols 
The gold in the ingots, the silk in the bales. 

•' From the gardens of Pleasure, where reddens the 
rose. 
And the scent of the cedar is faint on the air, 
Past the harbors of Traffic, sublimely she goes, 
Man's hopes o'er the world of the waters to bear! 

" Where the cheer from the harbors of Traffic is 

heard. 

Where the gardens of I'leasure fade fast on the 

sight, 

O'er the rose, o'er the cedar, there passes a bird ; 

'T is the Paradise Bird, never known to alight. 

" And that bird, bright and bold as a Poet's desire. 
Roams her own native heavens, the realms of her 
birth. 



There she soars like a seraph, she shines like a fire. 
And her plumage hath never been sullied by 
earth. 

" And the mariners greet her ; there 's song on each 
lip. 
For that bird of good omen, and joy in each eye. 
And the ship and the bird, and the bird and the 
ship. 
Together go forth over ocean and sky. 

" Fast, fast fades the land ! far the rose-gardens 
Hee, 
And far fleet the harbors. In regions unknown 
The ship is alone on a desert of sea. 

And the bird in a desert of sky is alone. 

" In those regions unknown, o'er that desert of air, 
Down that desert of waters — tremendous in 
wrath — 
The storm-wind Euroclydon leaps froin his lair. 
And cleaves, through the waves of the ocean, his 
path. 

" And the bird in the cloud, and the ship on the 
wave, 
Overtaken, are beaten about by wild gales ; 
And the mariners all rush their cargo to save. 
Of the gold in the ingots, the silk in the bales. 

" Lo ! ;i wonder, which never before hath been 
heard. 
For it never before hath been given to sight ; 
On the ship hath descended the Paradise Bird, 
The F'aradise Bird, never known to alight ! 

" The bird which the mariners bless'd. when e.ach 
lip 
Had a song for the omen that gladden d each 
eye ; 
The bright bird for shelter hath flown to the ship 
From the wrath on the sea and the wrath in the 
sky. 

" But the mariners heed not the bird any more. 
They are felling the masts — they are cutting the 
sails ; 
Some are working, some weeping, and some wrang- 
ling o'er 
Their gold in the ingots, their silk in the bales. 

" Souls of men are on bo;ird ; wealth of man in the 
hold ; 
And the storm-wind Euroclydon sweeps to his 
prey ; 
And who heeds the bird ? ' Save the silk and the 
gold I ' 
And the bird from her shelter the gust sweeps 
away ! 



24 



LUCILE. 



' Poor Paradise Bird ! on licr lone fliglit once 

more 

Bacl< again in tlie wake of llie wind she is 

driven — 

To be 'whelm'd in the storm, or above it to soar. 

And, if rescued from ocean. lo vanish in heaven ! 

' And the ship rides the waters, and weathers the 
gales : 
From the haven she nears the rejoicing is heard. 
All hands are at work on the ingots, the bales, 
Save a child, sitting lonelv. who misses — the 
Bird !" 



CANTO III. 



With stout iron shoes be my Pegasus shod ! 
For my road is a rough one : flint, stubble, 

clod. 
Blue clav, and black quagmire. 
And I gallop up-hill, now. 

There 

In that tale of a youth who. one night at a revel, 
Amidst music and mirth lured and wiled by some 

devil. 



and 

brambles no few, 
's terror that 's true 




,.-; -55^ 



.| ,, ;, .■iisa*'' 



" With stoi't iron shoes be mv Peg.^si's shod," 

FoUow'd ever one mask through the mad masquer- 
ade. 
Till, pursued to some chamber deserted ('t is said), 
He unmask'd, with a kiss, the strange lady, and stood 
Face to face with a Thing not of flesh nor of blood. 
In this Masque of the Passions, call'd Life, there 's 

no human 
Emotion, though mask'd, or in man or in woman, 



But, when faced and unmask'd, it will le.ave us at 

last 
Struck by some supernatural aspect aghast. 
For truth is appalling and eltrich. as seen 
By this world's artificial lamplights, and we screen 
From our sight the strange vision that troubles our 

life. 
Alas ! why is Genius forever at strife 
With the world, which, despite the world's self, it 

ennobles .'' 
Whv is it that Genius perplexes and troubles 
And offends the effete life it comes to renew ? 
'T is the terror of truth ! 't is that Genius is true ! 

II. 

Lucile de Nevers (if her riddle I read) 

Was a woman of genius : whose genius, indeed. 

With her life was at war. Once, but once, in that 

life 
The chance had been hers to escape from this strife 
In herself ; finding peace in the life of another 
From the passionate wants she, in hers, failed to 

smother. 
But the chance fell too soon, when the crude rest- 
less power 
Which had been to her nature so fatal a dower. 
Only wearied the man it yet haunted and thrall'd ; 
And that moment, once lost, had been never re- 

call'd, 
Yet it left her heart sore : and, to shelter her heart 
From approach, she then sought, in that delicate art 
Of concealment, those thousand adroit strategies 
Of feminine wit, which repel while they please, 
A weapon, at once, and a shield, to conceal 
And defend all that women can earnestly feel. 
Thus, striving her instincts to hide and repress. 
She felt frighten 'd at times by her very success : 
She pined for the hill-tops, the clouds, and the stars : 
Golden wires may annoy us as much as steel bars 
If they keep us behind prison-windows : impassion'd 
Her heart rose and burst the light cage she had 

fashion'd 
Out of glittering trifles around it. 

Unknown 
To herself, all her instincts, without hesitation, 
Embraced the idea of self-immolation. 
The strong spirit in her, had her life liut been 

blended 
With some man's whose heart had her own com- 
prehended. 
All its wealth at his feet would have lavishly thrown. 
For him she had struggled and striven alone ; 
For him had aspired ; in him had transfused 
All the gladness and grace of her nature ; and used 
Yor him only the spells of its delicate power : 
Like the mmistering faiiy that brings from her 

bower 
To some maze all the treasures, whose use the 

fond elf. 
More enrich'd by her love, disregards for herself. 



LUCILE. 



But standing apart, as she ever had done. 

And her genius, which needed a vent, finding none 

In the broad fields of action thrown wide to man's 

power, 
She unconsciously made it her bulwark and tower. 
And built in it her refuge, whence lightly she hurl'd 
Her contempt at the fashions and forms of the 

world. 
And the permanent cause why she now niiss'd and 

fail'd 
That firm hold upon life she so keenly assail'd. 
Was, in all those diurnal occasions that place 
Say — the world and the woman opposed face to 

face. 
Where the woman must yield, she, refusing to stir. 
Offended the world, which in turn wounded her. 

As before, in the old-fashion'd manner. I fit 
To this character, also, its moral : to wit. 
Say — the world is a nettle ; disturb it, it stings : 
Grasp it firmly, it stings not. On one of two things. 
If you would not be stung, it behooves you to settle : 
Avoid it, or crush it. She crush'd not the nettle; 
For she could not ; nor would she avoid it : she tried 
With the weak hand of woman to thrust it aside. 
And it stung her. A woman is too slight a thing 
To trample the world without feeling its sting. 



One lodges but simply at Luchon ; yet, thanks 

To the season that changes forever the banks 

Of the blossoming mountains, and shifts the light 

cloud 
O'er the vallev, and hushes or rouses the loud 
Wind that wails in the pines, or creeps murmuring 

down 
The dark evergreen slopes to the slumbering town, 
And the torrent that falls, faintly heard from afar. 
And the blue-bells that purple the dapple-gray scaur, 
One sees with each month of the many-faced year 
A thousand sweet changes of beauty appear. 
The chalet where dwelt the Comtesse de Nevers 
Rested half up the base of a mountain of firs. 
In a garden of roses, reveal'd to the road. 
Yet withdrawn from its noise : 't was a peaceful 

abode. 
And the walls, and the roofs, with their gables like 

hoods 
Which the monks wear, were built of sweet resin- 
ous woods. 
The sunlight of noon, as Lord Alfred ascended 
The steep garden paths, every odor had blended 
Of the ardent carnations, and faint heliotropes. 
With the balms floated down from the dark wooded 

slopes : 
A light breeze at the windows was playing about. 
And the white curtains floated, now in, and now 

out. 
The house was all hush'd when he rang at the 

door, 




1 ^VA^ A PEACEFUL AUL-Dt 

By an old nodding negress, whose sable head shined 
In the sun like a cocoa-nut polished in Ind, 
'Neath the snowy foulard which about it was 
wound. 

IV. 

Lord Alfred sprang forward at once, with a bound. 
He remember'd the nurse of Lucile. The old 

dame. 
Whose teeth and whose eyes used to beam when 

he came, 
With a boy's eager step, in the blithe days of yore, 
To pass, unannounced, her young mistress's door. 
The old woman had fondled Lucile on her knee 
When she left, as an infant, far over the sea, 
In India, the tomb of a mother, unknown, 
To pine, a pale tfow'ret, in great Paris town. 
She had sooth'd the child's sobs on her breast, 

when she read 
The letter that told her. her father was dead. 
An astute, shrewd adventurer, who, like Ulysses, 
Had studied men, cities, laws, wars, the abysses 
Of statecraft, with varying fortunes, was he. 
He had wander'd the world through, tiy land and 

by sea. 
And knew it in most of its phases. Strong will. 
Subtle tact, and soft manners, had given him skill 
To conciliate Fortune, and courage to 

brave 
Her displeasure. Thrice shipwreck'd, 

and cast by the wave 
On his own quick resources, they rarely 

had fail'd 
His command : often baffled, he ' 

ever prevail'd, 

In his combat with 

fate : to-day flat- 

ter'd and fed 
By monarchs, to-mor- 
row in search of 

mere bread. 
The offspring of tinier 

trouble-haunted, he 

came 
Of a family ruin'd, yet 

noble in name. 
He lost sight of his 

fortune, at twenty. 

in France ; 
And, half statesman, 

half soldier, and 

wholly F r e e - 

lance. 




...A 



' At the door of a convent in 
Paris." 



26 



LUCILE. 




"When the 
bud to the 
blossom hath 

BURST." 



Had w a n d e r ' d in 
search of it, over the 
world. 
Into India. 

But scarce had 
tlie nomad unfurl'd 
His wandering tent at 
Mysore, in the 
smile 
Of a Rajah (whose 
court he controll'd 
for a while. 
And whose council he 
prompted and gov- 
ern'd by stealth i ; 
Scarce, indeed, had he wedded an Indian of wealth. 
Who died giving birth to this daughter, before 
He was borne to the tomb of his wife at Mysore. 
His fortune, which fell to his orphan, perchance 
Had secured her a home with his sister in France, 
A lone woman, the last of the race left. Lucile 
Neither felt, nor affected, the wish to conceal 
The half-Eastern blood, which appear'd to bequeath 
(Reveal'd now and then, though but rarely, be- 
neath 
That outward repose that conceal'd it in her) 
A something half wild to her strange character. 
The nurse with the orphan, awhile broken-hearted, 
At the door of a convent in Paris had parted. 
But later, once more, with her mistress she tarried, 
When the girl, by that grim maiden aunt, had been 

married 
To a dreary old Count, who had sullenly died. 
With no claim on her tears — she had wept as a 

bride. 
Said Lord Alfred, " Your mistress expects me." 

The crone 
Oped the drawing-room door, and there left him 
alone. 

V. 

O'er the soft atmosphere of this temple of grace 
Rested silence and perfume. Xo sound reach'd 

the place. 
In the white curtains waver'd the delicate shade 
Of the heaving acacias, through which the breeze 

play'd. 
O'er the smooth wooden floor, jiolisli'd dark as a 

glass. 
Fragrant white Indian matting allow'd you to pass. 
In light olive baskets, by window and d6or. 
Some hungfrom the ceiling, some crowding the floor. 
Rich wild flowers pluck'd by Lucile from the hill, 
Seem'd the room with their passionate presence to 

fill: 
Blue aconite, hid in white roses, reposed ; 
The deep belladonna its vemieil disclosed ; 
And the frail saponaire, and the tender blue-bell. 
And the purple valerian, — each child of the fell 
And the solitude flourish'd, fed fair from the source 
Of waters the huntsman scarce heeds in his course. 



Where the chamois and izard, with delicate hoof, 
Pause or flit through the pinnacled silence aloof. 



VI. 



Here vou felt, by the sense of its beauty reposed. 
That vou stood in a shrine of sweet thoughts. 

Half unclosed 
In the light slept the flowers : all was pure and at 

rest ; 
All peaceful; all modest; all seem'd self-pos- 

sess'd. 
And aware of the silence. No vestige nor trace 
Of a voung woman's coquetry troubled the place. 
He stood bv the window. A cloud pass'd the 

sun. 
A light breeze uplifted the leaves, one by one. 
Just then Lucile entered the room, undiscern'd 
Bv Lord .Alfred, whose face to the window was 

turn'd 
In a strange rever)'. 

The time was, when Lucile, 
In beholding that man, could not help but reveal 
The rapture, the fear, which wrench 'd out every 

nene 
In the heart of the girl from the w-onian's reserve. 
And now — she gazed at him, calm, smiling, — per- 
chance 
Indifferent. 

VII. 

Indifferenth' turning his glance, 
Alfred V^argrave encounter'd that gaze unaware. 
O'er a bodice snow-white stream'd her soft dusky 

hair ; 
A rose-bud half blown in her hand ; in her eyes 
A half-pensive smile. 

A sharp cry of surprise 
Escaped from his lips : some unknown agita- 
tion. 
An invincible trouble, a strange palpitation, 
Confused his ingenious and frivolous wit ; 
Overtook, and entangled, and paralyzed it. 
That wit so complacent and docile, that ever 
Lightlv came at the call of the lightest endeavor, 
Ready coin'd, and availably current as gold. 
\\'hich, secure of its value, so fluently roll'd 
In free circulation from hand on to hand 
For the usage of all. at a moment's command ; 
For once it rebell'd. it was mute and unstirr'd. 
And he look'd at Lucile without speaking a word. 



Perhaps what so troubled him was, that the face 
On whose features he gazed had no more than a 

trace 
Of the face his remembrance had imaged for 

years. 
Yes ! the face he remember'd was faded with 

tears : 



LUCILE. 



27 



Grief had faiiiis'.i'd the ligure, and diniin'd the dark 

eyes, 
A;id starved the pale lips, too acquainted with 

sighs. 
And that tender, and gracious, and fond coquciterie 
Of a woman who knows her least ribbon to be 
Something dear to the lips that so warmly caress 
Everv sacred detail of her exquisite dress. 
In the careless toilet of Lucilc, — then too sad 
To care aught to her changeable beauty to add — 
Lord Alfred had never admired before ! 
Alas ! poor Lucile, in those weak days of yore, 
Had neglected herself, never heeding, nor thinking 
(While the blossom and bloom of her beauty were 

shrinking) 
That sorrow can beautify only the heart — 
Not the face — of a woman ; and can but impart 
Its endearment to one that has suffer'd. In truth 
Grief hath beauty for grief ; but gay youtlt loves 

gay youth. 

IX. 

The woman that now met. imshrinking. his gaze, 
Seem'd to bask in the silent but sumptuous haze 
Of that soft second summer, more ripe than the 

first. 
Which returns when the bud to the blossom hath 

burst 
In despite of the stormiest April. Lucile 
Had acquired that matchless unconscious appeal 
To the homage which none but a churl would 

withhold — 
That caressing and exquisite grace — never bold. 
Ever present — which just a few women possess. 
From a heathful repose, undisturb'd by the stress 
Of unquiet emotions, her soft cheek had drawn 
A freshness as pure as the twilight of dawn. 
Her figure, though slight, had revived evervwhere 
The luxurious proportions of youth ; and her hair — 
Once shorn as an offering to |5assionate love — 
Now floated or rested redundant above 
Her airy pure forehead and throat ; gather'd loose 
Under which, by one violet knot, the profuse 
Milk-white folds of a cool modest garment reposed, 
Rippled faint by the breast they half hid, half dis- 
closed, 
And her simple attire thus in all things reveal'd 
The fine art which so artfully all things conceal'd.'* 

X. 

Lord Alfred, who never concei\ed that Lucile 
Could have look'd so enchanting, felt tempted to 

kneel 
At her feet, and her pardon with passion im- 
plore ; 
But the calm smile that met him sufficed to restore 
The pride and the bitterness needed to meet 
The occasion with dignity due and discreet. 

XI, 

•" Madam," — thus he began with a voice reas- 
sured, — • 



■■ Vou see that your latest command has secured 
My immediate obedience — presuming 1 may 
Consider my freedom restored from this day." — 
" I had thought." said Lucile, with a smile gay vet 

sad, 
" That your freedom from me not a fetter has had. 
Indeed ! ... in my chains have you rested till 

now .' 
I have not so flattered myself, I avow I" 
" For Heaven's sake. Madam." Lord .Alfred re- 
plied, 
" Do not jest ! has the moment no sadness .'" he 

sigh'd. 
" 'T is an ancient tradition," she answered, " a tale 
Often told — a position too sure to prevail 
In the end of all legends of love. If we wrote. 
When we first love, foreseeing that hour vet re- 
mote, 
Wherein of necessity each would recall 
From the other the poor foolish records of all 
Those emotions, whose pain, when rciordcd^ 

seem'd bliss, 
Should we write as we wrote ? Ikit one thinks not 

of this ! 
At twenty (who does not at twenty ?) we write, 
Believing eternal the frail vows we plight ; 
And we smile with a confident pitv, above 
The vulgar results of all poor human lo\e : 
For we deem, with that vanity common to vouth. 
Because what we feel in our bosoms, in truth. 
Is novel to us — that 't is novel to earth. 
And will prove the exception, in durance and worth. 
To the great law to which all on earth must in- 
cline. 
The error was noble, the vanity fine ! 
.Shall we blame it because we survive it ? ah, no ; 
'T was the youth of our youth, my lord, is it not 
so .'" 

XII. 

Lord Alfred was mute. He remeinber'd her yet 
A child — the weak sport of each moment's regret, 
Blindly yielding herself to the errors of life. 
The deceptions of youth, and borne down bv the 

strife 
And the tumult of passion ; the tremulous luv 
Of each transient emotion of grief or of jov. 
But to watch her pronounce the death-warrant of 

all 
The illusions of life — lift, unflinching, the p.ill 
From the bier of the dead Past — that woman so 

fair. 
And so young, yet her own self-survivor : who 

there 
Traced her life's epitaph with a finger so cold ! 
'T was a picture that pain'd his self-love to lie- 
hold. 
He himself knew — none better — the things to be 

said 
Upon subjects like this. Yet he bow'd down his 

head. 



28 



LUCILE. 



And 



as thus, with a trouble he could not com- 
mand. 
He paused, crumpling the letters he held in his 

hand, 
" Vou know me enough," she continued. " or what 
I would say is, you yet recollect (do you not, 
Lord Alfred?) enough of my nature, to know 
That these pledges of what was perhaps long ago 
A foolish affection, I do not recall 
From those motives of prudence which actuate all 
Or most women when their love ceases. Indeed, 
If you have such a doubt, to dispel it I need 
But remind you that ten years these letters have 

rested 
Unreclaim'd in your hands." A reproach seem'd 

su.ggested 
By these words. To meet it. Lord .Alfred look'd 

up. 
(His gaze had been fix'd on a blue Sevres cup 
With a look of profound connoisseurship — a smile 
, Of singular interest and care, all this while.) 

He look'd up, 
and look'd 
long in the 
face of Lu- 
cile. 
To mark if that 
face by a sign 
would reveal 
At the thought 
of Miss Darcy 
the least jeal- 
ous pain. 
He look'd keenly 
and long, yet 
he look'd there 
in vain. 
" You are gener- 
ous, Madam," 
he murmur'd 
at last, 







' Justice, judgment." 



And into his voice a light irony pass'd. 
He had look'd for reproaches, and fully arranged 
His forces. But straightway the enemy changed 
The position. 

Xlll. 

" Come !" gayly Lucile interposed, 
With a smile whose di\"inely deep sweetness dis- 
closed 
Some depth in her nature he never had 'known, 
While she tenderly laid her light hand on his own, 
" Do not think I abuse the occasion. We gain 
Justice, judgment, with years, or else years are in 

vain. 
From me not a single reproach can you hear. 
I have sinn'd to myself — to the world — nay, I fear 
To vou chieflv. The woman who loves should, in- 
deed. 
Be the friend of the man that she loves. She 
should heed 



Not her selfish and often mistaken desires. 

But his interest whose fate her own interest in- 
spires ; 

And. rather than seek to allure, for her sake. 

His life down the turbulent, fanciful wake 

Of impossible destinies, use all her art 

That his place in the world find its place in her 
heart. 

I, alas !-^l perceived not this truth till too late ; 

I toi'mented your youth, I have darken'd your fate. 

Forgive me the ill I have done for the sake 

Of its long e.Kpiation !" 

XIV. 

Lord Alfred, awake. 
Seem'd to wander from dream on to dream. In 

that seat 
Where he sat as a criminal, ready to meet 
His accuser, he found himself turn'd by some 

change. 
As surprising and all unexpected as strange. 
To the judge from whose mercy indulgence was 

sought. 
All the world's foolish pride in that moment was 

naught ; 
He felt all his plausible theories posed ; 
And, thrill'd bv the beauty of nature disclosed 
In the pathos of all he had witness'd, his head 
He bow'd, and faint words self-reproachfully said. 
As he lifted her hand to his lips. 'T was a hand 
While, delicate, dimpled, warm, languid, and 

bland. 
The hand of a woman is often, in youth. 
Somewhat rough, somewhat red, somewhat grace- 
less, in truth ; 
Does its beauty refine, as its pulses grow calm. 
Or as Sori'ow has cross'd the life-line in the palm ? 



XV. 



The more that he look'd. that he listen 'd, the more 
He discover'd perfections unnoticed before. 
Less salient than once, less poetic, perchance, 
This woman who thus had sui'vived the romance 
That had made him its hero, and breathed him its 

sighs, 
Seem'd more charming a thousand times o'er to 

his eyes. 
Together tliev talk'd of the years since when last 
Thev parted, contrasting the ])resent. the past. 
Vet no memor)- marr'd their light converse. Lu- 
cile 
Ouestion'd much, with the interest a sister might 

feel. 
Of Lord .Alfred's new life, — of Miss I3arcy — her 

face. 
Her temper, acconiplishments — pausing to trace 
The advantage derived from a hymen so fit. 
Of herself, stie recounted with humor and wit 



LUCILE. 



29 



Her journeys, her daily employments, the lands 
She had seen, and the books she had read, and the 

hands 
She had shaken. 

In all that she said there appear'd 
An amiable irony. Laughing, she rear'd 
The teinple of reason, with ever a touch 
Of light scorn at her work, reveal'd only so much 
As there gleams, in the thyrsus that Bacchanals 

bear, 
Through the blooms of a garland the point of a 

spear. 
But above, and beneath, and beyond all of this. 
To that soul, whose experience had paralyzed bliss, 
A benignant indulgence, to all things res'ign'd, 
A justice, a sweetness, a meekness of mind. 
Gave a luminous beauty, as tender and faint 
And serene as the halo encircling a saint. 



Unobserved by Lord Alfred the time fleeted by. 
To each novel sensation spontaneously 
He abandon'd himself with that ardor so strange 
Which belongs to a mind grown accustom'd to 

change. 
He sought, with well-practised and delicate art, 
To surprise from Lucile the true state of her heart ; 
But his efforts were vain, and the woman, as ever, 
More adroit than the man, baffled eveiy endeavor. 
When he deem'd he had touch'd on some chord in 

her being, 
At the touch it dissolved, and was gone. Ever flee- 
ing 
As ever he near it advanced, when he thought 
To have seized, and proceeded to analyze aught 
Of the moral existence, the absolute soul. 
Light as vapor the phantom escaped his control. 

XVII. 

From the hall, on a sudden, a sharp ring was heard. 
In the passage without a quick footstep there stirr'd. 
At the door knock'd the negress, and thrust in her 

head, 
" The Duke de Luvois had just enter'd," she said, 
" And insisted" — 

" The Duke !" cried Lucile (as she spoke 
The Duke's step, approaching, a light echo woke). 
" Say I do not receive till the evening. Explain," 
As she glanced at Lord .-Mfred, she added again, 
" I have business of private importance." 

There came 
O'er Lord Alfred at once, at the sound of that 

name. 
An invincible sense of vexation. He turn'd 
To Lucile, and he fancied he faintly discern'd 
On her face an indefinite look of confusion. 
On his mind instantaneously flash 'd the conclusion 
That his presence had caused it. 

He said, with a sneer 
Which he could not repress, " Let not »ic interfere 



With the claims on your time, lady ! when you are free 
From more pleasant engagements, allow me to see 
And to wait on you later." 

The words were not said 
Ere he wish'd to recall them. He bitterly read 
The mistake he had made in Lucile's flashing eye. 
Inclining her head, as in haughty re|)ly. 
More reproachful perchance than all ut'ter'd rebuke, 
She said merely, resuming her seat, " Tell the Duke 
He may enter." 

.And vex'd with his own words and hers, 
Alfred \"argrave bow'd low to Lucile de Nevers, 
Pass'd the casement and enter'd the garden. Before 
His shadow was fled the Duke stood at the door. 

XVIII. 

When left to his thoughts in the garden alone, 
Alfred V'argrave stood, strange to himself. With 

dull tone 
Of importance, through cities of rose and carnation. 
Went the bee on his business from station to station. 
The minute mirth of sunnner was shrill all around ; 
Its incessant small voices like stings seem'd to sound 
On his sore angry sense. He stood grie\ing the hot 
Solid sun with his shadow, nor stirred from the spot. 
The last look of Lucile still bewilder'd, perplexd. 
And reproach'd him. The Duke's visit goaded and 

vex'd. 
He had not yet given the letters. Again 
He must visit Lucile. He resolved to remain 
Where he was till the Duke went. In short, he 

would slay. 
Were it only to know when the Duke went awa)-. 
But just as he form'd this resolve, he perceived 
Ap])roaching towards him, between the thick-leaved 
And luxuriant laurels, Lucile and the Duke. 
Thus surprised, his first thought was to seek for 

some nook 
Whence he might, unobserved, from the garden 

retreat. 
They had not yet seen him. The sound of their 

feet 
And their voices had warn'tl him in time. Thev 

were walking 
Towards him. The Duke (a true Frenchman) was 

talking 
With the action of Talma. He saw at a glance 
That they bai'r'd the sole path to the gateway. No 

chance 
Of escape save in instant concealment ! Deep-dipp'd 
In thick foliage, an arbor stood near. In he slipp'd. 
Saved from sight, as in fi-ont of that ambush they 

pass'd. 
Still conversing. Beneath a laburnum at last 
They paused, and sat down on a bench in the shade. 
So close that he could not but hear what they said. 

XIX. 

Lucile. 
Duke. I scarcelv conceive . . . 



30 



LUCILE. 



Luvois. 

Ah, forgive ! . . . I desired 
So deeply to see you to-day. Vou retired 
So early last night from the ball . . . this whole 

week 
I have seen you pale, silent, preoccupied . . . speak. 
Speak, Lucile, and forgive me ! . . . 1 know that I am 
A rash fool — but I love you ! I love vou, Madame, 
More than language can sav ! Do not deem, O 

Lucile, 
That the love I no longer have strength to conceal 
Is a passing caprice ! It is strange to my nature. 
It has made me, unknown to myself, a new crea- 
ture. 
I implore you to sanction and save the new life 
Which I lay at your feet with this prayer — Be my 

wife ; 
Stoop, and raise me ! 



That nature will prey on itself ; it was made 

To influence others. Consider," he said, 

'■ That genius craves power — what scope for it 

here ? 
Gifts less noble to //ic' give command of that sphere 
In which genius is power. Such gifts you despise ? 
But you do not disdain what such gifts realize ! 
I offer you, Lady, a name not unknown — 
A fortune which worthless, without you, is grown — 
All my life at your feet I lay down — at your feet 
A heart which for you, and you only, can beat." 

Lucile. 

That heart, Duke, that life — I respect both. The 

name 
And position you offer, and all that you claim 
In behalf of their nobler employment, I feel 
To deserve what, in turn, 1 now ask vou — 



Lord Alfred could scarcelv restrain 
The sudden, acute pang of anger and pain 
With which he had heard this. As though to some 

wind 
The leaves of the hush'd, windless laurels behind 
The two thus in converse were suddenlv stirr'd. 
The sound half betrayed him. They started. He 

heard 
The low voice of Lucile ; but so faint was its tone 
That her answer escaped him. 

Luvois hurried on. 
As though in remonstrance with what had been 

spoken. 
"Nay, I know it, Lucile! but your heart was nnt 

broken 
By the trial in which all its fibres were proved. 
Love, perchance, you mistrust, yet you need to be 

loved. 
You mistake your own feelings. 1 fear vou mis- 
take 
What so ill I interpret, those feelings which make 
Words like these vague and feeble. Whatever your 

.heart 
May have suffer'd of yore, this can onlv impart 
A pity profound to the love which I feel. 
Hush! hush! Iknowall. Tell me nothing, Lucile," 

'■ You know all, Duke .-■" she said ; " well then, 

know that, in truth, 
I have learn 'd from the rude lesson taught to mv 

youth 
From my own heart to shelter my life ; to mistrust 
The heart of another. We are what we must. 
And not what we would be. 1 know that one 

hour 
Assures not another. Tlie will and the power 
Are diverse." 

" O Madame !" he answer'd. " vou fence 
With a feeling you know to be true and intense. 
'T is not n/_v life, Lucile, that I plead for alone : 
If your nature I know, 't is no less for your own. 



Luvois. 
Lucile. 



Lucile ! 



I ask vou to leave me- 



Luvois. 

You do not reject .' 

Lucile. 
I ask vou to leave me the time to reflect. 



You ask me .'- 



Luvois. 

Lucile. 
— The time to reflect. 



Luvois. 

Say — One word ! 
May I hope ? 

The reply of Lucile was not heard 
By Lord Alfred ; for just then she rose, and moved 

on. 
The Duke bow'd his lips o'er her hand, and was 
gone. 

XX. 

Not a sound save the birds in the bushes. And 

when 
Alfred Vargrave reel'd forth to the sunlight again, 
He just saw the white robe of the woman recede 
As she enter'd the house. 

Scarcely conscious indeed 
Of his steps, he too follow'd, and enter'd. 



He enter'd 
Unnoticed ; Lucile never stirr'd : so concentred 
And wholly absorb'd in her thoughts she appear'd. 
Her back to the window was turn'd. As he near'd 



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A^v^Ne- 






LUCILE. 



33 



Ever gayly he sings ! For to him, from of old. 
The hills have confided their secrets, and told 
Where the white partridge lies, and the cock o' the 

woods ; 
Where the izard flits fine through the cold solitudes ; 
Where the bear lurks perdu ; and the lynx on his 

prey 
At nightfall descends, when the mountains are gray ; 
Where the sassafras blooms, and the blue-bell is 

born. 
And the wild rhododendron first reddens at morn ; 
Where the source of the waters is fine as a thread ; 
How the storm on the wild Maladetta is spread ; 
Where the thunder is hoarded, the snows lie asleep. 
Whence the torrents are fed, and the cataracts leap ; 
And, familiarly known in the hamlets, the vales 
Have whisper'd to him all their thousand love-tales ; 
He has laugh'd with the girls, he has leapd with 

the boys ; 
Ever blithe, ever bold, ever boon, he enjoys 
An existence untroubled by envy or strife. 
While he feeds on the dews and the juices of life. 
And so lightlv he sings, and so gayly he rides. 
For Bernard le Sauteur is the king of ail 

guides ! 

V. 

But Bernard found, that day, neither song nor love- 
tale, 
Xor adventure, nor laughter, nor legend avail 
To arouse from his deep and profound revery 
Him that silent beside him rode fast as could be. 



Ascending the mountain they slacken'd their pace, 
And the marvellous prospect each moment changed 

face. 
The breezy and pure inspirations of morn 
Breathed about them. The scarp'd ravaged moun- 
tains, all worn 
By the torrents, whose course they watch'd faintly 

meander. 
Were alive with the diamonded shy salamander. 
They paused o'er the bosom of purple abysses. 
And wound through a region of green wildernesses ; 
The waters went wirbling above and around. 
The forests hung heap'd in their shadows pro- 
found. 
Here the Larboust, and there Aventin, Castellon, 
Which the Demon of Tempest, descending upon, 
Had wasted with fire, and the peaceful Cazeaux 
Thev mark'd ; and far down in the sunshine below. 
Half dipp'd in a valley of airiest blue. 
The white happy homes of the village of Oo, 
Where the age is yet golden. 

And high overhead 
The wrecks of the combat of Titans were spread. 
Red granite and quartz, in the alchemic sun. 
Fused their splendors of crimson and crystal in one ; 
And deep in the moss gleam'd the delicate shells. 
And the dew linger'd fresh in the heavy harebells ; 





The large violet burn'd ; the 

campanula blue ; 
And .Autumn's own flower, 

the saffron, peer'd through 
The red-berried brambles 

and thick sassafras ; 
And fragrant with thyme was 

the delicate grass. 
And high up, and higher, and 

highest of all. 
The secular phantom of 

snow ! 

O'er the wall 
Of a gray sunless glen ga])ing 

drowsy below-. 
That aerial spectre, reveal'd 

in the glow 
Of the great golden dawn. 

hovers faint on 

the eye. 
And appears to 

grow in, and 

grow out of, the 

sky. 
And plays with 

the fancy, and 

baffles the 

sight. 
Only reach'd by 

the vast rosy 

ripple of light. 
And the cool star 

of eve, the Im- 
perial Thing, 
Half unreal, like some mythological king 
That dominates all in a fable of old. 
Takes command of a valley as fair to behold 
As aught in old fables ; and, seen or unseen, 
Dwells aloof over all, in the vast and serene 
Sacred sky, where the footsteps of spirits are furl'd 
'Mid the clouds bevond which spreads the infinite 

world 
Of man's last aspirations, unfathom'd, untrod. 
Save by Even and Morn, and the angels of God. 

VII. 

Meanwhile, as they journey 'd, that serpentine road. 
Now abruptly reversed, unexpectedly show'd 
A gay cavalcade some few feet in advance. 
Alfred \'argrave"s heartbeat ; for he saw at a glance 
The slight form of Lucile in the midst. His next 

look 
Show'd him." joyouslv ambling beside her, the 

Duke. 
The rest of the troop which had thus caught his 

ken 
He knew not. nor noticed them (women and men). 
They were laughing and talking together. Soon 

after 
His sudden appearance suspended their laughter. 



' A GAV CAVALCADE.* 



34 



LUCILE. 



" You here ! . . . I imagined you far on your way 
To Bigorre !" . . . said Lucile. " What has caused 

you to stay ?" 
" I am on my way to Bigorre," he rejjhed. 
" But, since my way would seem to be yours, let 

me ride 
For one moment beside you." And then, with a 

stoop. 
At her ear, ..." and forgive me I" 

IX. 

By this time the troop 
Had regather'd its numbers. 

Lucile was as pale 
As the cloud 'neath their feet, on its way to the 

vale. 
The Duke had observed it, nor quitted her side. 
For even one moment, the whole of the ride. 
Alfred smiled, as he thought, " he is jealous of her !" 
And the thought of this jealousy added a spur 
To his firm resolution and effort to please. 
He talk'd much ; was witty, and quite at his ease. 



After noontide, the clouds, which had traversed the 

east 
Half the day, gather'd closer, and rose and in- 
creased. 
The air changed and chill'd. As though out of the 

ground. 
There ran up the trees a confused hissing sound. 
And the wind rose. The guides sniff'd, like 

chamois the air. 
And look'd at each other, and halted, and there 
Unbuckled the cloaks from the saddles. The white 
Aspens rustled, and turn'd up their frail leaves in 

fright. 
All announced the appro.ach of the tempest. 

Erelong 
Thick darkness descended the mountains among; 
And a vivid, vindictive, and ser])entine flash 
Gored the darkness, and shore it across with a 

gash. 
The rain fell in large heavy drops. And anon 
Broke the thunder. 

The horses took fright, ever)- one. 
The Duke's in a moment was far out of sight. 
The guides whoop'd. The band was' obliged to 

alight ; 
And, dispersed up the perilous pathwav, walk'd 

blind 
To the darkness before from the darkness behind. 

XI. 

.And the Storm is abro.id in the mountains ! 

He hlls 
The crouch'd hollows and all the oracular hills 



With dread voices of power. .-\ roused million or 

more 
Of wild echoes reluctantly rise from their hoar 
Immemorial ambush, and roll in the wake 
Of the cloud, whose reflection leaves vivid the lake. 
And the wind, that wild robber, for plunder de- 
scends 
From invisible lands, o'er those black mountain 

ends ; 
He howls as he hounds down his prey ; and his 

lash 
Tears the hair of the timorous wan mountain-ash. 
That clings to the rocks, with her garments all 

torn. 
Like a woman in fear ; then he blows his hoarse 

horn. 
And is off, the fierce guide of destruction and 

terror, 
L''p the desolate heights, 'mid an intricate error 
Of mountain and mist. 

XII. 

There is war in the skies ! 
Lo ! the black-wing-^d legions of tempest arise 
O'er those sharp splinter'd rocks that are gleaming 

below 
In the soft light, so fair and so fatal, as though 
Some seraph burn'd through them, the thunder- 
bolt searching 
Which the black cloud unbosom'd just now. Lo ! 

the lurching 
And shivering pine-trees, like phantoms, that seem 
To waver above, in the dark; and yon stream, 
How it hurries and roars, on its way to the white 
And paralyzed lake there, appall'd at the sight 
Of the things seen in heaven ! 

XIII. 

Through the darkness and awe 
That had gather'd around him. Lord .Alfred now 



Of the lightning that momently pulsed through the 

air, 
A woman alone on a shelf of the hill. 
With her cheek coldly propped on her hand. — and 

as still 
As the rock that she sat on, which beetled above 
The black lake beneath her. 

All terror, all love 
Added speed to the instinct with which he rush'd 

on. 
For one moment the blue lightning swathed the 

whole stone 
In its lurid embrace: like the sleek dazzling snake 
That encircles a sorceress, charm 'd for her sake 
And luU'd by her loveliness; fawning, it play'd 
.And caressingly twined round the feet and the 

head 




' A WOMAN ALONE ON A SHELF OK THE HILL.* 



36 



LL'CILE. 



like the passion that brings 



Of the woman who sat there, undaunted and cahii 
As the soul of that solitutle, listing the psalm 
Of the plangent and laboring tempest roll slow 
From the caldron of midnight and vapor below. 
Next moment from bastion to bastion, all round, 
Of the siege-circled mountains, there tumbled the 

sound 
Of the liattering thunder's indefinite peal. 
And Lord Alfred had sprung to the feet of Lucile. 

XIV. 

She started. Once more, with its flickering wand, 
The lightning approach 'd her. In terror, her hand 
Alfred \"argrave had seized within his ; and he felt 
The light fingers that coldly and lingeringly dwelt 
In the grasp of his own, tremble faintly. 

" See ! see ! 
Where the whirlwind hath stricken and strangled 

yon tree !" 
She exclaim'd, . . . 
on its breath 
To the being it embraces, destruction and death ! 
Alfred Vargrave, the lightning is round you !" 

" Lucile ! 
I hear — I see — naught but yourself. I can feel 
Nothing here but your presence. My pride fights 

in vain 
With the truth that leaps from nie. W'c two meet 

again 
'Neath yon terrible heaven that is watching above 
To avenge if I lie when 1 swear that I love, — 
And beneath yonder terrible heaven, at your feet, 
I humble my head and my heart. I entreat 
Your pardon, Lucile, for the past — I implore 
For the future your mercy — implore it with more 
Of passion than prayer ever breathed. By the 

power 
Which invisibly touches us both in this hour. 
By the rights I have o'er you, Lucile, I demand" — 
" The rights !" . . . said Lucile, and drew from him 

her hand. 
" Yes, the rights ! for what greater to man may be- 
long 
Than the. right to repair in the future the wrong 
To the past? and the wrong I have done you, of 

yore, 
Hath bequeath'd to me all the sad right to re- 
store, 
To retrieve, to amend I 1, who injured vour life, 
Urg'e the right to repair it, Lucile I Be.mv wife. 
My guide, my good angel, my all upon earth. 
And accept, for the sake of what yet may give worth 
To my life, its contrition !" 

XV. 

He paused, for there came 
O'er the cheek of Lucile a swift flush like the flame 
That illumined at moments the darkness o'erhead. 
With a voice faint and marr'd by emotion, she said, 
" And your pledge to another.''" 



XVI. 

" Hush, hush !" he exclaim'd. 
" .My honor will live where my love lives, unshamed. 
'T were poor honor indeed, to another to give 
That life of which j-tm keep the heart. Could I live 
In the light of those young eyes, suppressing a 

lie ? 
Alas, no ! _vi>i/r hand holds my whole destinv. 
I can never recall what my lips have avow'd ; 
In your love lies whatever can render me proud. 
For the great crime of all my e.xistence hath been 
To have known you in vain. And the duty best 

seen. 
And most hallow'd — the duty most sacred and 

sweet 
Is that which hath led me, Lucile, to your feet. 

speak ! and restore me the blessing I lost 
When I lost you — my pearl of all pearls bevond 

cost ! 
And restore to your own life its youth, and restore 
The vision, the rapture, the passion of yore ! 
Ere our brows had been dimm'd in the dust of the 

world. 
When our souls their white wings yet exulting un- 

furi'd ! 
For your eyes rest no more on the unquiet man, 
The wild star of whose course its pale orbit out- 
ran. 
Whom the formless indefinite future of \outh. 
With its lying allurements, distracted. In truth 

1 have wearily wander'd the world, and I feel 
That the least of your lovely regards, O Lucile, 
Is worth all the world can afford, and the dream 
Which, though follow'd forever, forever doth seem 
.As fleeting, and distant, and dim, as of yore 
When it brooded in twilight, at dawn, on the shore 
Of life's untraversed ocean ! 1 know the sole path 
To repose, which my desolate destiny hath. 

Is the path by whose course to your feet 1 return. 
-•\nd who else, O Lucile, will so truly discern 
."Xnd so deeply revere, all the passionate strength, 
The sublimity in you, as he whom at length 
These have saved from himself, for the truth they 

reveal 
To his worship .'" 

XVII. 

She spoke not ; but Alfred could feel 
The light hand and arm. that upon him reposed. 
Thrill and tremble. Those dark eyes of hers were 

half closed ; 
But, under their languid mvsterious fringe, 
A passionate softness was beaming. One tinge 
Of faint inward fire flush'd transparently through 
The delicate, pallid, and pure olive hue 
Of the cheek, half averted and droop'd. The rich 

bosom 
Heaved, as when in the heart of a rufHed rose- 
blossom 
.A. bee is imprisoned and struggles. 



LUCILE. 



37 



XVIII. 



Meanwhile, 

The sun, in his setting, sent up the last smile 
Of his power, to baffle the storm. And, Ijehokl ! 
O'er the mountains embattled, his armies, all gold, 




" Sent up the last smile of his power, to baffle thf. storm." 

Rose and rested : while far up the dim air\' crags. 

Its artiller)' silenced, its banners in rags. 

The rear of the tempest its sullen retreat 

Drew off slowly, receding in silence, to meet 

The powers of the night, which, now gathering afar. 

Had already sent forward one bright, signal star. 

The curls of her soft and luxuriant hair. 

From the dark riding-hat, which Lucile used to 

wear. 
Had escaped ; and Lord Alfred now cover'd with 

kisses 
The redolent warmth of those long falling tresses. 
Neither he, nor Lucile, felt the rain, which not yet 
Had ceased falling around them ; when, splash'd, 

drench'd, and wet, 
The Due de Luvois down the rough mountain 

course 
Approached them as fast as the road, and his horse, 
Which was limping, would suffer. The beast had 

just now 
Lost his footing, and over the perilous brow 
Of the storm-haunted mountain his master had 

thrown ; 
But the Duke, who was agile, had leap'd to a stone. 
And the horse, being breil to the instinct which fills 
The breast of the wild mountaineer in these hills. 
Had scrambled again to his feet ; and now master 
And horse bore about them the signs of disaster. 
As they heavily footed their way through the mist. 
The horse with his shoulder, the Duke with his 

wrist. 
Bruised and bleeding. 

XIX. 

If ever your feet, like my own, 
O reader, have traversed these mountains alone. 
Have you felt your identity shrink and contract 
At the sound of the distant and dim cataract. 
In the presence of nature's immensities ? Say, 
Have you hung o'er the torrent, bedew'd with its 
spray, 



And, leaving the rock-way, contorted and roll'd, 
Like a huge couchant Tvphon, fold heap'd over 

fold, 
Track'd the summits, from which every step that 

you tread 
Rolls the loose stones, with thunder below, to the 

bed 
Of invisible waters, whose mystical sound 
Fills with awful suggestions the dizzy profound ? 
And, laboring onwards, at last through a break 
In the walls of the world, burst at once on the lake ? 
If you have, this description 1 might have withheld. 
You remember how strangely your bosom has 

swell 'd 
At the vision reveal'd. On the overwork'd soil 
Of this planet, enjoyment is sharpen'd by toil ; 
And one seems, by the pain of ascending the height, 
To have conquer'd a claim to that wonderful sight. 

XX. 

Hail, virginal daughter of cold Espingo I 

Hail Naiad, whose realm is the cloud and the 

snow ; 
For o'er thee the angels have whiten'd their wings. 
And the thirst of the seraphs is quench'd at thy 

springs. 
What hand hath, in heaven, upheld thine expanse ? 
When the breath of creation first fashion'd fair 

France, 
Did the Spirit of 111. in his downthrow a]5palling. 
Bruise the world, and thus hollow thy basin while 

falling ? 
Ere the mammoth was born hath some monster 

unnamed 
The base of thy mountainous pedestal framed ? 
And later, when Power to Beauty was wed, 
Did some delicate fairy embroider thy bed 
With the fragile valerian and wild columbine ? 

XXI. 

But thy secret thou keepest, and I will keep mine; 
For once gazing on thee, it flash'd on my soul. 
All that secret ! I saw in a vision the whole 
Vast design of the ages ; what was and shall be I 
Hands unseen raised the veil of a great mysteiy 
For one moment. I saw, and I heard ; and my 

heart 
Bore witness within me to infinite art, 
In infinite power proving infinite love ; 
Caught the great choral chant, mark'd the dread 

pageant move — 
The divine Whence and Whither of life ! But, O 

daughter 
Of Oo, not more safe in the deep silent water 
is thy secret than mine in my heart. Even so. 
What I then saw and heard,' the world never shall 

know. 

XXII. 

The dimness of eve o'er the valleys had closed. 
The rain had ceased falling, the mountains reposed. 



3S 



LUCILE. 




" The mystical moon.' 



The stars had enkindled 
in luminous courses 

Their slow-sliding 
lamps, when, re- 
mounting their 
horses. 

The riders retraversed 
that mighty serration 

Of rock-work. Thus 
left to its own desola- 
tion, 

The lake, from whose 
glimmering limits the 
last 

Transient pomp of the 
pageants of sunset 
had pass'd. 

Drew into.its bosom the 
darkness, and only 

Admitted within it one 
image — a lonely 

And tremulous phan- 
tom of flickering light 

That follow'd the mys- 
tical moon through 
the night. 



It was late when o'er Luchon at last they descended. 
To her chalet, in silence. Lord Alfred attended 
Lucile. As they parted she whisper'd him low, 
" You have made to me, Alfred, an offer I know 
All the worth of. believe me. I cannot reply 
Without time for reflection. Good-night 1 — not 

good-by." 
" Alas ! 't is the very- same answer you made 
To the Due de Luvois but a day since," he said. 
•' No, Alfred ! the very same, no," she replied. 
Her voice shook. " If you love me, obey me. Abide 
My answer, to-morrow." 

XXIV. 

Alas. Cousin Jack ! 
You Cassandra in breeches and boots I turn your 

back 
To the ruins of Troy. Prophet, seek not for glory 
Amongst thine own people. 

I follow mv stoiT. 



CANTO V. 

I. 

Up ! — forth again, Pegasus ! — " Many 's the slip," 
Hath the ])roverb well said, " 'twixt the cup and the 

lip !" 
How blest should we be, have I often conceived. 
Had we really achie\ed what we nearly achieved ! 



We but catch at the skirts of the thing we would be. 
And fall back on the lap of a false destiny. 
So it will be, so has been, since this world began ! 
And the happiest, noblest, and best part of man 
Is the part which he never hath fully plav'd out : 
For the first and last word in life's volume is — 

Doubt. 
The face the most fair to our vision allow'd 
Is the face we encounter and lose in the crowd. 
The thought that most thrills our existence is one 
Which, before we can frame it in language, is 

gone. 

Horace I the rustic still rests by the river. 

But the river flows on, and flows past him forever ! 
Who can sit down, and say ..." What I will be, 

I will" ? 
Who stand up, and affirm ..." What I was. I am 

still" .= 
Who is it that must not, if cjuestiou'd, say . . . 

" What 

1 would have remain'd, or become, I am not" ." 
We are ever behind, or beyond, or beside 
Our intrinsic existence. Forever at hide 
And seek with our souls. Not in Hades alone 
Doth Sisyphus roll, ever frustrate, the stone. 
Do the Danaids plv, ever vainly, the sieve. 
Tasks as futile does earth to its denizens give. 
Yet there 's none so unhappy, but what he hath 

been 

Just about to be happy, at some time, I ween ; 

And none so beguiled and defrauded by chance, 

But what once, in his life, some minute circum- 
stance 

Would have fullv sufficed to secure him the bliss 

Which, missing it then, he forever must miss. 

And to most of us, ere we go down to the grave, 

Life, relenting, accords the good gift we would 
have ; 

But, as though by some strange imperfection in 
fate. 

The good gift, when it comes, comes a moment too 
late. 

The Future's great veil our breath fitfully flaps, 

And behind it broods ever the mighty Perhaps. 

Yet ! there 's many a slip 'twixt the cup and the lip ; 

But while o'er the brim of life's beaker I dip. 

Though the cup may next moment be shatter'd, the 
wine 

Spilt, one deep health I '11 pledge, and that health 
shall be thine, 

O being of beauty and bliss ! seen and known 

In the deeps of my soul, and possess'd there alone ! 

My days know thee not ; and my lips name thee 
never. 

Thy place in my poor life is vacant forever. 

We have met : we have parted. No more is re- 
corded 

In mv annals on earth. This alone was afforded 

To the man whom men know me, or deem me, to 
be. 

But, far down, in the depth of my life's mystery, 



LUCILE. 



39 




(Like the siren 
that under the 
deep ocean 
dwells, 

Whom the wind 
as it wails, and 
the wave as it 
swells. 

Cannot stir in 
the calm of her 
coralline halls, 

'Mid the world's 
adamantine 
and dim ped- 
estals ; 

At whose feet sit 
the syll^hs and 
sea fairies ; for 
whom 

The almondine 
glimmers, the 
soft samphires 
bloom ) — 



"The sylphs and sea fairies 

Thou abidest and reignest forever, O Queen 
Of that better world which thou swayest unseen ! 
My one perfect mistress ! my all things in all ! 
Thee by no vulgar name known to men do I call : 
For the Seraphs have named thee to me in my 

sleep, 
And that name is a secret I sacredly keep. 
But, wherever this nature of mine is most fair. 
And its thoughts are the purest — belov'd, thou art 

there ! 
And whatever is noblest in aught that I do. 
Is done to exalt and to worship thee too. 
The world gave thee not to me, no ! and the world 
Cannot take thee away from me now. I have 

furl'd 
The wings of my spirit about thy bright head ; 
At thy feet are my soul's immortalities spread. 
Thou mightest have been to me much. Thou art 

more. 
And in silence I W'orship, in darkness adore. 
If life be not that which without us we find — 
Chance, accident, merelv — but rather the mind. 



And the soul which, within us, suniveth these 

things. 
If our real e.\istence have truly its springs 
Less in that which we do than in that which we 

feel. 
Not in vain do I worship, not hopeless I kneel ! 
For then, though I name thee not mistress or wife. 
Thou art mine— and mine onlv,— O life of my 

life! 
And though many 's the slip 'twixt the cup and the 

lip. 
Yet while o'er the brim of life's beaker I dip. 
While there 's life on the lip, while there 's warmth 

in the wine. 
One deep health I '11 pledge, and that health shall be 

thine ! 

11. 

This world, on whose peaceable breast we repose 
Unconvulsed bv alarm, once confused in the throes 
Of a tumult divine, sea and land, moist and dry, 
And in fierv fusion commix'd earth and sky. 
Time cool'd it, and calm'd it, and taught it to go 
The round of its orbit in peace, long ago. 
The wind changeth and w^hirleth continually : 
All the rivers run down and run into the sea : 
The wind whirleth about, and is presently still'd : 
.All the rivers run down, yet the sea is not fiU'd : 
The sun goeth forth from his chambers : the sun 
Ariseth, and lo ! he descendeth anon. 
,\11 returns to its place. Use and Habit are powers 
Far stronger than Passion, in this world of ours. 
The great laws of life readjust their infraction, 
And to every emotion appoint a reaction. 

III. 

Alfred Vargrave had time, after leaving Lucile, 
To review the rash step he had taken, and feel 
What the world would have call'd " his erroneous 

position." 
Thought obtruded its claim, and enforced recogni- 
tion : 
Like a creditor who, when the gloss is worn out 
On the coat which we once wore with pleasure, no 

doubt, 
Sends us in his account for the garment we 

bought. 
Ev'n- spendthrift to passion is debtor to thought. 

IV. 

He felt ill at ease with himself. He could feel 
Little doubt what the answer would be from Lucile. 
Her eyes, when they parted— her voice, when they 

met. 
Still enraptured his heart, which they haunted. 

And vet. 
Though, exulting, he deem'd himself loved, where 

he loved. 
Through his mind a vague self-accusation there 

moved. 



40 



LUCILE. 



O'er his fancy, when fancy was fairest, would rise 
The infantine face of Matilda, with eyes 
So sad, so reproachful, so cruelly kind, 
That his heart fail'd within him. In vain did he find 
A thousand just reasons for what he had done : 
The vision that troubled him would not he gone. 
In vain did he say to himself, and with truth. 
" Matilda has beauty, and fortune, and youth ; 
And her heart is too young to ha\e deeply involved 
All its hopes in the tie which must now be dissolved. 
'T were a false sense of honor in me to suppress 
The sad truth which I owe it to her to confess. 
And what reason have I to presume this poor life 
Of my own, with its languid and frivolous strife, 
And without what alone might endear it to her. 
Were a boon all so precious, indeed, to confer. 
Its withdrawal can wrong her ? 

It is not as though 
I were bound to some poor village maiden, 1 know. 
Unto whose simple heart mine were all upon earth. 
Or to whose simple fortunes my own could give 

worth. 
Matilda, in all the world's gifts, will not miss 
Aught that I could procure her. 'T is best as it is !" 





*' Like the dead leaf in av- 
tumn, that, falling, leaves 

NAKED AND BARE A DESOLATE J-.-fty \, :-- ^£f 

TREE." ''''\^ra| " ^^ 

The world will console her — her pride .^ ' > i!" 
will support — ' \V- 

Her vouth will renew its emotions. In X 
' short, ft 

There is nothing in me that Matilda will 
miss 

When once we have parted. 'T is best as it is ! 



In vain did he say to himself, " When I came 
To this fatal spot, I had nothing to blame 
Or reproach myself for. in the thoughts of mv heart. 
I could not foresee that its pulses would start 
Into such strange emotion on seeing once more 
A woman I left with indifference before. 




*' And in FIERY FUSION commix'd earth and sky." 

I belfeved, and with honest conviction believed, 
In my love for Matilda. I never conceived 
That another could shake it. I deeni'd I had done 
With the wild heart of youth, and looked hopefully on 
To the soberer manhood, the worthier life. 
Which I sought in the love that I vow'd to my wife. 
Poor child ! she shall learn the whole truth,' She 

shall know 
What I knew not mvself but a few davs ago. 



VI. 

But in vain did he reason and argue. Alas ! 
He yet felt unconvinced that '/ terns best as it was. 
Out of reach of all reason, forever would rise 
That infantine face of Matilda, with eves 
So sad, so reproachful, so cruelly kinci, 
That they harrow'd his heart and distracted his 
mind. 

VII. 

And then, when he turned from these thoughts to 

Lucile. 
Though his heart rose enraptured, he could not but 

feel 
A vague sense of awe of her nature. Behind 
All the beauty of heart, and the graces of mind. 
Which he saw and revered in her, something un- 
known 
And unseen in that nature still troubled his own. 
He felt that Lucile penetrated and prized 
Whatever was noblest and best, though disguised. 
In himself ; but he did not feel sure that he knew. 
Or completely possess'd, what, half hidden from view, 
Remain'd lofty and lonelv in /u-r. 

Then, her life. 
So untamed, and so free ! would she yield as a wife. 
Independence, long claimed as a woman ? Her 

name. 
So link'd by the world with that spurious fame 
Which the beauty and wit of a woman assert. 
In some measure, alas 1 to her own loss and hurt 
In the serious thoughts of a man ! . . . This re- 
flection 
O'er the love which he felt cast a shade of dejection, 



LUCILE. 



41 



From which he forever escaped to the thought 
Doubt could reach not. ..." I love her. and all 
else is naught I" 

VI 11. 

His hand trembled strangely in breaking the seal 
Of the letter which reach'd him at last from Lucile. 
At the sight of the very first word that he read. 
That letter dropp'd down from his hand like the 

dead 
Leaf in autumn, that, falling, leaves naked and hare 
A desolate tree in a wide wintr)' air. 
He pass'd his hand hurriedly over his eyes, 
Bewilder'd. incredulous. Angry surprise 
And dismay, in one sharp moan, broke from him. 

Anon 
He pick'd up the page, and read rapidly on. 

IX. 

The Comtesse de Nevers to Lord Alfred 
Vargr.we. 

"No, Alfred! 

If over the present, when last 
AVe two met. rose the glamour and mist of the past. 
It hath now rolled away, and our two paths are 

plain. 
And those two paths divide us. 

" That hand which again 
Mine one moment has clasp"d as the hand of a 

brother. 
That hand and your honor are pledged to another! 
Forgive, Alfred Vargrave. forgive me. if yet 
For that moment (now past!) I have made you 

forget 
What was due to yourself and that other one. Yes, 
Mine the fault, and be mine the repentance ! Not 

less. 
In now owning this fault, -A.lfred. let me own, too. 
I foresaw not the sorrow involved in it. 

"True, 
That meeting, which hath been so fatal, I sought, 
1 alone ! But oh, deem not it was with the thought 
Or your heart to regain, or the past to rewaken. 
No I believe me, it was with the firm and un- 
shaken 
Conviction, at least, that our meeting would be 
Without peril loytiu, although haply to me 
The salvation of all iiiy existence. 

" I own. 
When the rumor first reach'd me, which lightly 

made known 
To the world your engagement, my heart and my 

mind 
Suffer'd torture intense. It was cruel to find 
That so much of the life of my life, half unknown 
To myself, had been silently settled on one 
Upon whom but to think it would soon be a crime. 
Then I said to myself, • From the thraldom which 

time 



Hath not weaken'd there rests but one hope of 

escape. 
That image which Fancy seems ever to shape 
From the solitude left round the ruins of yore. 
Is a phantom. The lieing 1 loved is no more. 
What 1 hear in the silence, and see in the lone 
\'ou\ of life, is the voung hero born of my own 
Perish'd youth : and his image, serene and sublime. 
In my heart rests unconscious of change and of 

time. 
Could I see it but once more, as time and as 

ch;nige 
Have made it, a thing unf.imiliar and strange. 
See, indeed, that the Being 1 loved in my youth 
Is no more, and what rests now is only, in truth. 
The hard pupil of life and the world : then, oh, 

then, 
I should wake from a dream, and my life be again 
Reconciled to the world ; and. released from regret. 
Take the lot fate accords to my choice. ' 

" So we met. 
But the danger 1 did not foresee has occurr'd : 
The danger, alas, to yourself ! 1 ha\e err'd. 
But happy for both that this error hath been 
Discover'd as soon as the danger was seen ! 
We meet. Alfred X'argrave, no more. I, indeed, 
.Shall be far from Luchon when this letter you read. 
My course is decided ; my path I discern : 
Doubt is over; ni\' future is fix'd now. 

" Return. 

return to the young living love ! Whence, alas ! 
If, one moment, you wander'd. think only it was 
More deeply to bury the past love. 

'• And. oh ! 
Believe, Alfred Vargrave, that I. where I go 
On my far distant pathway through life, shall 

rejoice 
To treasure in memor\' all that your voice 
Has avow'd to me, all in which others have clothed 
To mv fancy with beauty and worth your betrothed ! 
In the fair morning light, in the orient dew 
Of that young life, now yours, can you fail to renew 
All the noble and pure aspirations, the truth. 
The freshness, the faith, of your own earnest 

youth ? 
Yes ! you will be happy. I, too, in the bliss 

1 foresee for you, I shall be happy. And this 
Proves me worthy your friendship. .And so — let it 

prove 
That I cannot — 1 do not — respond to your love. 
Yes, indeed ! be convinced that I could not (no, no. 
Never, never!) have render'd you happy. And so. 
Rest assured that, if false to the vows you have 

plighted. 
You would have endured, when the first brief, 

excited 
Emotion was o'er, not alone the remorse 
Of honor, but also (to render it worse) 
Disappointed affection. 

" Yes. Alfred ; you start ? 
lUit think ! if the world was too much in vmir heart. 




' Read ovek again that perplexing epistle." 



LUCILE. 



43 



And too little in mine, when we parted ten years 
Ere this last fatal meeting, that time (ay, and tears !) 
Have but deepen'd the old demarcations which 

then 
Placed our natures asunder ; and we two again, 
As we then were, would still have been strangely 

at strife. 
In that self-independence which is to my life 
Its necessity now, as it once was its pride. 
Had our course through the world been henceforth 

side by side, 
I should have revolted forever, and shock'd 
Your respect for the world's plausibilities, mock'd, 
Without meaning to do so, and outraged, all those 
Social creeds which you live by. 

" Oh ! do not suppose 
That I blame you. Perhaps it is )ou that are right. 
Best, then, all as it is ! 

" Deem these words life's Good-night 
To the hope of a moment : no more ! if there fell 
Any tear on this page, 't was a friend's. 

" So farewell 
To the past — and to you, .\lfred Vargrave. 

"LUCILE." 
X. 

So ended that letter. 

The room seem'd to reel 
Round and round in the mist that was scorching 

his eyes 
With a fien* dew. Grief, resentment, surprise, 
Half choked him ; each word he had read, as it 

smote 
Down some hope, rose and grasp'd like a hand at 

his throat. 
To stifle and strangle him. 

Gasping already 
For relief from himself, with a footstep unsteady. 
He pass'd from his chamber. He felt both 

oppress'd 
And excited. The letter he thrust in his breast. 
And, in search of fresh air and of solitude, pass'd 
The long lime-trees of Luchon. His footsteps at 

last 
Reach'd a bare narrow heath by the skirts of a wood : 
It was sombre and silent, and suited his mood. 
By a mineral spring, long unused, now unknown. 
Stood a small ruin'd abbey. He reach'd it, sat 

down 
On a fragment of stone, 'mid the wild weed and 

thistle, 
And read over again that perplexing epistle. 

XI. 

In re-reading that letter, there roll'd from his mind 
The raw mist of resentment which first made him 

blind 
To the ])athos breath'd through it. Tears rose in 

his eyes. 
And a hope sweet and strange in his he.irt seem'd 

to rise. 



The truth which he saw not the first time he read 
That letter, he now saw — that each word betray'd 
The love which the writer had sought to conceal. 
His love was received not, he could not but feel. 
For one reason alone, — that his love was not free. 
True ! free yet he was not : but could he not be 
Free erelong, free as air to revoke that farewell. 
And to sanction his own hopes? he had but to 

tell 
The truth to Matilda, and she were the first 
To release him : he had but to wait at the worst. 
Matilda's relations would probably snatch 
Anv pretext, with pleasure, to break off a match 
In which they had yielded, alone at the whim 
Of their spoil'd child, a languid approval to him. 
She herself, careless child ! was her love for him 

aught 
Save the first joyous fancy succeeding the thought 
She last gave to her doll ? was she able to feel 
Such a love as the love he divined in Lucile ? 
He would seek her, obtain his release, and, oh ! 

then. 
He had but to tly to Lucile, and again 
Claim the love which his heart would be free to 

command. 
But to press on Lucile any claim to her hand. 
Or even to seek, or to see her, before 
He could say, " I am free ! free, Lucile, to im- 
plore 
That great blessing on life you alone can con- 
fer," 
'T were dishonor in him, 't would be insult to her. 
Thus still with the letter outspread on his knee 
He foUow'd so fondly his own revery. 
That he felt not the angry regard of a man 
Fix'd upon him ; he saw not a face stern and 

wan 
Turn'd towards him ; he heard not a footstep that 

pass'd 
And repass'd the lone spot where he stood, till at 

last 
A hoarse voice aroused him. 

He look'd up and saw. 
On the bare heath before him, the Due de Luvois. 

XII. 

With aggressive ironical tones, and a look 
Of concentrated insolent challenge, the Duke 
Address'd to Lord Alfred some sneering allusion 
To ■■ the doubtless sublime reveries his intrusion 
Had, he fear'd, interrupted. Milord would do- 
better. 
He fancied, however, to fold up a letter 
The writing of which was too well known, in fact. 
His remark as he pass'd to have failed to attract." 

XIII. 

It was obvious to Alfretl the Frenchman was bent 
L'pon i)icking a quarrel! and doubtless 't was 
meant 



44 



LUCILE. 



From him to provoke it by sneers such as these. 
A moment sufficed his quick instinct to seize 
The position. He felt that he could not expose 
His own name, or Lucile's, or Matilda's, to those 
Idle tongues that would bring down upon him the 

ban 
Of the world, if he now were to fight with this 

man. 
And indeed, when he look'd in the Duke's haggard 

face. 
He was pain'd with the change there he could not 

but trace. 
And he almost felt pity. He therefore put by 
Each remark from the Duke with some careless 

reply. 
And coldly, but courteously, waving away 
The ill-humor the Duke seem'd resolved to display. 
Rose, and turn'd, with a stern salutation, aside. 

XIV. 

Then the Duke put himself in the path, made one 

stride 
In advance, raised a hand, fix'd upon him his eyes. 
And said . . . 

" Hold, Lord Alfred ! Away with disguise ! 
I will own that I sought you a moment ago. 
To fix on you a quarrel. I still can do so 
Upon my excuse. I prefer to be frank. 
I admit not a rival in fortune or rank 
To the hand of a woman, whatever be hers 
Or her suitor's. I love the Comtesse de Nevers. 
I believed, ere you cross'd me, and still have the 

right 
To believe, that she would have been mine. To 

her sight 
You return, and the woman is suddenly changed. 
You step in between us : her heart is estranged. 
You ! who now are betrothed to another, I know : 
You ! whose name with Lucile's nearly ten years 

ago 
Was coupled by ties which you broke ; you ! the 

man 
I reproach'd on the day our acquaintance began : 
You ! that left her so lightly, — 1 cannot believe 
That vou love, as I love, her ; nor can I conceive 
You, indeed, have the right so to love her. 

Milord, 
I will not thus tamelv concede, at your word. 
What, a few days ago, I believed to be mine ! 
I shall yet persevere : I shall yet be, in fine, 
A rival you dare not despise. It is plain 
That to settle this contest there can but remain 
One way — need I say what it is ?" 

XV. 

Not unmoved 
With regretful respect for the earnestness proved 
By the speech he had heard, Alfred Vargrave 

replied 
In words which he trusted might vet turn aside 




" Bent upon picking a 

QUARREL." 

The quarrel from which 
he felt bound to ab- 
stain. 

And, with stately urban- 
ity, strove to explain 

To the Duke that he too 
(a fair rival at worst !) 

Had not been accepted. 

XVI. 

" Accepted ! say first 
Are vou free to have of- 
fer'd?" 
Lord Alfred was mute. 



" Ah, you dare not re- 
ply !" cried the Duke, 
" Why dispute. 

Why palter with 
You are silent ! 
why ? 

Because, in your 



me ? 
and 




science, you cannot 
deny 
'T was from vanity, wan- 
ton and cruel withal. 
And the wish an ascend- 
ency lost to recall, 
That you stepp'd in between me and her. If, milord, 
You be really sincere, I ask only one word. 
Sav at once you renounce her. At once, on my part, 
I will ask vour forgiveness with all truth of heart, 
And there cait be no quarrel between us. Say on !" 
Lord Alfred grew gall'd and impatient. This tone 
Roused a strong irritation he could not repress. 
" You have not the right, sir," he said, " and still less 
The power, to make terms and conditions with me. 
I refuse to reply." 



As diviners may see 
Fates thev cannot avert in some figure occult, 
He foresaw in a moment each evil result 
Of the quarrel now imminent. 



"THE GAY COUNTESS, ONCE MORE 
TO HER OLD FRIEND, THE WORLD HAD RE-OPEND HER 
DOOR." 

Pjiiitcd l\r Tl/onus Mii/vj/iw. 

(Page 68.) 



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I 



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A 



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/ 




•I |l- 



// 



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COPYRIGHT I iJi*l BY FREOCHICM A.&TOKtS COMPANY 



LUCILE. 



45 



There, face to face, 
'Mid the ruins and tombs of a long-perish'd race. 
With, for witness, the stern Autumn Skv overhead. 
And beneath them, unnoticed, the graves, and the 

dead. 
Those two men had met, as it were on the ridge 
Of that perilous, narrow, invisil)le bridge 
DivicMng the l^ast from the Future, so small 
That, if one should pass over, the other must fall. 



THI'. Cd.MTKSSE UE NEVKKS id IHE Uuc DE 

Luvois. 

"Saint Saviour. 

" Your letter, which follow'd me here, makes me 

stav 
Till I see you again. Witli no moment's delay 
I entreat, 1 conjure you, by all that you feel 
Or profess, to come to me directly. 

" LuciLE." 



On the ear, at that moment, the sound of a hoof. 
Urged with speed, sharply smote; and from under 

the roof 
Of the forest in view, where the skirts of it verged 
On the heath where they stood, at full gallop 

emerged 
A horseman. 

A guide he appear'd, by the sash 
Of red silk round the waist, and the long leathern lash 
With the short wooden handle, slung crosswise 

behind 
The short jacket ; the loose canvas trouser, confined 
By the long boots ; the woollen capote ; and the rein, 
A mere hempen cord on a curb. 

Up the plain 
He wheel'd his horse, white with the foam on his 

flank, 
Leap'd the ri\ulet lightly, turn'd sharp from the 

bank. 
And, approaching the Duke, raised his woollen 

capote, 
Bow'd low in the selle, and deliver'd a note. 

x:i. 

The two stood astonish 'd. The I^uke, with a gest 
Of apology, turn'd, stretch'd his hand, and possess'd 
Himself of the letter, changed color, and tore 
The page open, and xead. 

Ere a moment was o'er 
His whole aspect changed. A light rose to his eyes. 
And a smile to his lips. While with startled surprise 
Lord Alfred yet watch'd him, he turn'd on his heel. 
And said gayly, " .\ pressing request from Lucile I 
You are quite right. Lord .Vlfred ! fair rivals at 

worst, 
Our relative place inay perchance be reversed. 
You are not accepted — nor free to propose '. 
I, perchance, am accepted already; who knows .^ 
I had warn'd you. milord, I should still persevere. 
This letter — but stay ! you can read it — look here !" 

X.\l. 

It was now .Mfred's turji to feel roused anil en- 
raged. 

But Lucile to himself was not pledged or engaged 

By aught that could s.inction resentment. He 
said 

Not a word, but turn'd round, took the letter. ,nid 
read . . . 



" Your letter I" He then liad been writing to her! 
Coldly shrugging his shouldi-rs. Lord .Alfred said. 

•' -Sir, 
Do not let me detain you !" 

The Duke smiled and bow'd ; 
Placed the note in his bosom ; address'd, half aloud, 
A few u-ords to the messenger. ..." Say your 

despatch 
\\ill be answer'd ere nightfall ;" then glanced a'.. 

his watch. 
And turn'd back to the Baths. 

X.XIII. 

Alfred \'argrave stood still. 
Torn, distracted in heart, and divided in will. 
He turn'd to Lucile's farewell letter to him. 
And read over her words ; rising tears made them 

dim ; 
" Doiibl is cn'cr ; myfiitii>i:isfi.x'dno7i\" they said, 
'•My course is decided." Her course? what! to 

wed 
With this insolent rival ! With that thought there 

shot 
Through his heart an acute jealous anguish. But 

not 
Even thus could his clear worldly sense quite excuse 
Those strange words to the Duke. She was free to 

refuse 
Himself, free the Duke to accept, it was true : 
Even then, though, this eager ajid strange rendez- 
vous 
How- imprudent ! To some unfrequented lone inn, 
.And so late (for the night was about to begin) — 
She, companionless there I — had she bidden that 

man .' 
A fear, vague, and formless, and horrible, ran 
Through his heart. 

XXIV. 

At that moment he look'd up, and saw, 
Riding fast through the forest, 'the I3uc de Luvois, 
Who waved his hand to him, and s|)ed out of sight. 
The day was descending. He felt 't would be night 
Ere that man reached Saint Saviour. 

XXV. 

He walk'd on. but not 
Hack towaril Luchon : he walk'd on. but knew not 
in what 




"Waved his hand to him, and sped out of sight.' 



I.UCILE. 



47 



Direction, nor yet with what object, indeed. 
He was walking ; but still he walk'd on without 
heed. 



The day had been sullen ; but, towards his decline, 
The sun sent a stream of wild lijrht up the pine. 
Darkly denting- the red light reveal'd at its back. 
The old ruin'd abbey rose rootless and black. 
The spring that yet oozed through the nioss-paven 

floor 
Had suggested, no doubt, to the monks there, of 

yore. 
The sight of that refuge where, back to its God 
How many a heart, now at rest 'neath the sod, 
Had borne from the world all the same wild unrest 
That now prey'd on his own ! 

.XXVII. 

By the thoughts in his breast 
With varying impulse divided and torn. 
He traversed the scant heath, and re.ach'd the 

forlorn 
.•\utumn woodland, in which but a short while ago 
He had seen the Duke rapidly enter ; and so 
He too enter'd. The light waned around him, ami 

pass'd 
Into darkness. The wnithful, red Occident cast 
One glare of vindictive inquiry behind. 
As the last light of day from the high wood declined. 
And the great forest sigh'd its farewell to the beam. 
And far off on the stillness the voice of the stream 
Fell faintly. 

.KXVIII. 

O Nature, how fair is thv face. 
And how light is thy heart, and how friendless thy 

grace ! 
Thou false mistress of m.m ! thou dost sport with 

him lightly 
In his hours of ease and enjoyment ; and brightly 
Dost thou smile to his smile ; to his joys thou in- 

clinest. 
Hut his sorrows, thou knowest them not, nor di- 

vinest. 
While he wooes, thou art wanton ; thou Icttest him 

love thee ; 
But thou art not his friend, for his grief cannot 

mo\-e thee ; 
And at last, when he sickens and dies, what dost 

thou ? 
All as gay are thy garments, as careless thy brow I 
And thou laughest and toyest with any new-comer. 
Not a tear more for winter, a smile less for summer ! 
Hast thou never an anguish to heave the heart 

under 
That fair breast of thine, O thou feminine wonder ! 
For all those — the young, and the fair, and the 

strong. 
Who have loved thee, and lived with thee gayly 

and Ion'', 



.\nd who now on thy bosom lie dead .' and their 

deeds 
.\nd their days are forgotten ! O hast thou no 

weeds 
.\nd not one year of mourning, — one out of the 

many 
That deck thy new bridals forever, — nor any 
Regrets for thy lost loves, conceal'd from the new, 
O thou widow of earth's generations? Go to '. 
If the sea and the night wind knew aught of these 

things. 
They do not reveal it. We are not thy kings. 



CANTO VI. 



I. 



"The huntsman has ridden too far on the chase. 

And ellrich, and eerie, and strange is the place! 

The castle betokens a date long gone by. 

He crosses the courtyard with curious eye : 

He wanders from chamber to chamber, and yet 

From strangeness to strangeness his footsteps are 
set ; 

And the whole place grows wilder and wilder, and 
less 

Like aught seen before. Each in obsolete dress. 

Strange portraits regard him with looks of suri)rise, 

Strange forms from the arras start forth to his 
eyes ; 

Strange epigraphs, blazon'd, burn out of the wall : 

The spell of a wizard is over it all. 

In her chamber, enchanted, the Princess is sleep- 
ing 

The sleep which for centuries she has been keeping. 

If she smile in her sleep, it must be to some lover 

Whose lost golden locks the long grasses now 
cover ; 

If she moan in her dream, it must be to deplore 

Some grief which the world cares to hear of no 
more. 

Hut how fair is her forehead, how calm seems her 
cheek ! 

And how sweet must that voice be, if once she 
would speak ! 

He looks and he loves her; but knows he (not he I) 

The clew to unravel this old myster)' ? 

.\nd he stoops to those shut lips. The shapes on 
the wall. 

The mute men in armor around him, and all 

The weird figures frown, as though striving to say, 

■ //ti// ! i>n>aiie not //u- Pas/, reckless child of To- 
day ! 

.Ind gi-'c not, O madman .' the heart in thy breast 

To a phantom, the soul of whose sense is possess' d 

Py an Age not thine mun ! ' 

" But unconscious is he, 

.\w\ he heeds not the warning, he cares not to see 

Aught but one form before him I 



48 



LUCILE. 



" Rash, wild words are o'er ; 
And the vision is vanish'd from sight evermore ! 
And the gray morning sees, as it drearily moves 
O'er a land long deserted, a madman that roves 
Through a ruin, and seeks to recapture a dream. 
Lost to life and its uses, withdrawn from the 

scheme 
Of man's waking existence, he wanders apart." 
And this is an old fain'-tale of the heart. 
It is told in all lands, in a different tongue ; 
Told with tears by the old, heard with smiles by the 

young. 
And the tale to each heart unto which it is known 
Has a different sense. It has puzzled my own. 



II. 



Eugene de Luvois was a man who. in p.irt 

From strong physical health, and that vigor of 

heart 
Which physical health gives, and partly, perchance. 
From a generous vanity native to France, 
With the heart of a hunter, whatever the quariT, 
Pursued it. too hotly impatient to tarry 
Or turn, till he took it. His trophies were trifles : 
But trifler he was not. When rose-leaves it rifles. 
No less than when oak-trees it ruins, the wind 
Its pleasure pursues with impetuous mind. 

Both Eugfene 
^ de L u V o i s 

and Lor d 
Alfred had 
been 
Men of pleas- 
u r e : but 
men's pleas- 
a n t vices, 
which, seen 
Floating faint, 
in the sun- 
shine of Al- 
fred's soft 
mood, 
Seem'd amia- 
ble foibles, 
by L u \' o i s 
pursued 
With impetu- 
ous passion, 
seemed se- 
mi-Satanic. 
Half pleased you see brooks play with pebbles ; in 




" The castle betokens , 

GONE BY," 



DATE LONG 



panic 
You watch them whirl'd down bv 



the 



torrent. 

In truth. 
To the sacred political creed of his youth 
The century which he was born to denied 
All realization. Its generous pride 
To degenerate protest on all things was sunk ; 
Its principles each to a prejudice shrunk. 




"The nUARRELLlM 
CROWS CLANG'D ABU\t' 
HIM." 



Down the path of a 

life that led no- 
where he trod, 
Where his whims 

were his guides, 

and his will was 

his god, 
And his pastime his 

purpose. 

From boyhood 
possess'd 
Of inherited wealth, 

he had learn'd to 

invest 
Both his wealth and 

those passions 

wealth frees from 

the cage 
Which penury locks, 

in each vice of an 

age 
AH the virtues of 

which, by the 

creed he revered. 
Were to him illegitimate. Thus, he appear'd 
To the world what the world chose to have him 

a])pear. — 
The frivolous tyrant of Fashion, a mere 
Reformer in coats, cards, and carriages ! Still 
'T was this vigor of nature, and tension of will. 
That found for the first time — perhaps for the last — 
In Lucile what they lacked yet to free from the 

Past, 
Force, and faith, in the Future. 

And so, in his mind. 
To the anguish of losing the woman was 

join'd 
The terror of missing his life's destination, 
Which in her had its mystical representation. 

III. 

And truly, the thought of it. scaring him, pass'd 
O'er his heart, while he now through the twilight 

rode fast. 
As a shade from the wing of some great bird ob- 
scene 
In a wide silent land maybe suddenly seen. 
Darkening over the sands, where it startles and 

scares 
Some traveller strav'd in the waste unawares. 
So that thought more than once darken 'd over his 

heart 
For a moment, and rapidly seem'd to depart. 
Fast and furious herode through the thickets which 

rose 
Up the shaggy hillside : and the quarrelling crows 
Clang'd above him, and clustering down the dim 

air 
Dropp'd into the dark woods. By fits here and 

there 



LUCILE. 



49 




A SMALL MOUNTAIN INN." 



Shepherd fires 
faint 1 y 
gleam'd from 
the V alleys. 
Oh. how 
He envied the 
wings of each 
wild bird, as 
now 
H e urged the 
steed over the 
dizzy ascent 
Of the moun- 
tain ! Behind 
him a murmur 
was sent 
From the tor- 
re n t — before 
him a sound 
from the 
tracts 
Of the wood- 
lands that 
waved o'er the 
wild cataracts. 
And the loose earth and loose stones roll'd 
momently down 
From the hoofs of his steed to abysses unknown. 
The red day had fallen beneath the black woods. 
And the Powers of the night through the vast soli- 
tudes 
Walk'd abroad and conversed with each other. 

The trees 
Were in sound and in motion, and mutter'd like seas 
In Elfland. The road through the forest was hol- 

low'd. 
On he sped through the darkness, as though he 

were foUow'd 
Fast, fast by the Erl King ! 

The wild wizard-work 
Of the forest at last open'd sharp, o'er the fork 
Of a savage ravine, and behind the black stems 
Of the last trees, whose leaves in the light gleam'd 

like gems, 
Broke the broad moon above the voluminous 
Rock-chaos — the Hecate of that Tartarus ! 
With his horse reeking white, he at last reach'd the 

door 
Of a small mountain inn, on the brow of a hoar 
Craggy promontory', o'er a fissure as grim, 
Through which, ever roaring, there leap'd o'er the 

limb 
Of the rent rock a torrent of water, from sight. 
Into pools that were feeding the roots of the night. 
A balcony hung o'er the water. Above 
In a glimmering casement a shade seem'd to move. 
At the door the old negress was nodding her head 
As he reach'd it. " My mistress awaits you," she 

said. 
And up the rude stairway of creaking pine rafter 
He follow'd her silent. A few moments after, 



His heart almost stunn'd him, his head seem'd to 

reel, 
For a door closed — Luvois was alone with Lucile. 

IV. 

In a gray travelling dress, her dark hair unconfined 
Streaming o'er it, and toss'd now and then by the 

wincr 
From the lattice, that waved the dull flame in a spire 
From a brass lamp before her — a faint hectic fire 
On her cheek, to her eyes lent the lustre of fever : 
They seem'd to have wept themselves wider than 

ever, 
Those dark eyes — so dark and so deep ! 

" You relent ? 
And your plans have been changed by the letter I 

sent .'" 
There his voice sank, borne down by a strong in- 
ward strife. 

Lucile. 

Your letter ! yes, Duke. For it threatens man's 

life- 
Woman's honor. 

Luvois. 

The last, madam, not ! 

Lucile. 

Both. I glance 
At your own words : blush, son of the knighthood 

of France, 
As I read them ! You .say in this letter . . . 

" / ktimo 
Why nmu you refuse me : '/ /'s {is it not so ?) 
For the man lulio has trifled before, -wantonly. 
And noia trifles again witli the heart you deny 
To mvself. But he shall not ' By man's last 

wild law, 
I will seize on the right (the right. Due de Luvois !) 
To avenge for you, woman, the past, and to give 
To the future its freedom. That man shall not live 
To make you as wretched as you have made me I" 

Luvois. 

Well, madam, in those words what word do you see 
That threatens the honor of woman ? 

Lucile. 

-See ! . . . what. 

What word, do you ask.' Every word! would you 
not. 

Had I taken your hand thus, have felt that your 
name 

Was soil'd and dishonor'tl by more than mere shame 

If the woman that bore it had first been the cause 

Of the crime which in these words is menaced ? 
You pause ! 

Woman's honor, you ask? Is there, sir, no dis- 
honor 

In the smile of a woman, when men, gazing on her, 



so 



LUCILE. 



Can shudder, and say, •' In that smile is a grave" ? 

No ! you can have no cause, Duke, for no right you 
have 

In the contest you menace. That contest but draws 

Every right into ruin. By all human laws 

Of man's heart I forbid it, by all sanctities 

Of man's social honor ! 

The Duke droop'd his eyes. 

'• I obey you," he said, " but let woman beware 

How she' plays fast and loose thus with human de- 
spair, 

And the storm in man's heart. Madam, yours was 
the right, 

When you saw th.it 1 Imped, to extinguish hope 
quite. 

But you should from the first have done this, for I 
feel 

That you knew from the first that 1 loved you." 

Lucile 

This sutiden reproach seeni'd to startle. 

She raised 

A slow, wistful regard to his features, and gazed 

On them silent awhile. His own looks were down- 
cast. 

Through her heart, whence its first wild alarm was 
now pass'd, 

Pity crept, and perchance o'erher conscience a tear, 

Falling softly, awoke it. 

However severe. 

Were they unjust, these sudden upbraidings, to her ? 

Had she lightly misconstrued this man's character. 

Which had seem'd, even when most impassion'd it 
seem'd. 

Too self-conscious to lose all in love ? Had she 
deem'd 

That this airy, gay, insolent man of the world. 

So proud of the place the world gave him, held 
furl'd 

In his bosom no passion which once shaken wide 

Might tug, till it snapp'd, that erect lofty pride .' 

Were those elements in him, which once roused to 
strife 

Overthrow a whole nature, and change a whole 
life? 

There are two kinds of strength. One, the strength 
of the river 

Which through continents pushes its pathway for- 
ever 

To fling its fond heart in the sea ; if it lose 

This, the aim of its life, it is lost to its use. 

It goes mad, is diffused into deluge, and dies. 

The other, the strength of the sea ; which supplies 

Its deep life from mysteriiilis sources, and draws 

The river's life into its own life, by laws 

Which it heeds not. The difference in each case 
is this : 

The river is lost, if the ocean it miss ; 
If the sea miss the river, what matter? The sea 
Is the sea still, forever. Its deep heart will be 
Self-sufficing, unconscious of loss as of yore ; 
Its sources are infinite ; still to the shore, 




*' The other, the strength of the sea." 

With no diminution of pride, it will say, 
" I am here ; I, the sea , stand aside, and make way !" 
Was his love, then, the love of the river? and she. 
Had she taken that love for the love of the sea ? 



.\t that thought, from her aspect whatever had 

been 
Stern or haughtv departed ; and, humbled in mien. 
She approached'd him, and brokenly murmur'd, as 

though 
To herself more than him, " Was 1 wrong ? is it so ? 
Hear me, Duke! you must feel that, whatever you 

deem 
Your right to reproach me in this, your esteem 
I may claim on o».i' ground — I at least am sincere. 
Vou' say that to me from the first it was clear 
That you loved me. But what if this knowledge 

were known 
.•\t a moment in life when I felt most alone, 
.•\nd least able to be so ? a moment, in fact, 
When I strove from one haunting regret to retract 
And emancipate life, and once more to fulfil 
Woman's destinies, duties, and hopes ? would you 

still 
So bitterlv blame me. Eug&ne de Luvois, 
If I hoped to see all this, or deem'd that I saw 
For a moment the promise of this, in the plighted 
Affection of one who, in nature, united 
So much that from others affection might claim. 
If only affection were free? Do you blame 
The hope of that moment ? I deem'd my heart free 
From all, saving sorrow. I deem'd that in me 
There was yet strength to mould it once more to 

my will. 
To uplift' it once more to my hope. Do you still 
Blame me. Duke, that I did not then bid you refrain 
From hope ? alas ! I too then hoped I" 

LuvoiS. 

Oh, again. 
Yet again, say that thrice blessed word I say, Lucile. 
That vou then deign'd to hope — 








' Shk 



SHRANK HACK. 



52 



LUCILE. 



LUCILE. 

Yes ! to hope I could feel, 
And could give to you, that without which, all else 

given 
Were Ijut to deceive, and to injure you even : — 
A heart free from thoughts of another. Say. then, 
Do you blame that one hope .' 

LUVOIS. 

O Lucile ! 

" Say again," 
She resumed, gazing down, and with faltering tone, 
"Do you blame me that, w'hen I at last had to own 
To my heart that the hope it had cherish'd was o'er. 
And forever, I said to you then, ' Hope no more .' 
I myself hoped no more!" 

With but ill-suppress'd wrath 
The Duke answer'd ..." What, then ! he recrosses 

your path. 
This man, and you have but to see him, despite 
Of his troth to another, to take back that light 
Worthless heart to your own which he wrong'd, 

years ago !" 
Lucile faintly, brokenlv murmur'd ..." No ! no ! 
'T is not that — but alas ! — but 1 cannot conceal 
That 1 have not forgotten the past — but I feel 
That I cannot accept all these gifts on your part, — 
In return for what . . . ah, Duke, what is it ? . . . 

a heart 
Which is only a ruin !" 

With words warm and wild, 
" Though a ruin it be, trust me yet to rebuild 
And restore it," Luvois cried ; " though ruin'd it be, 
Since so dear is that ruin, ah, yield it to me !" 
He approach'd her. She shrank back. The grief 

in her eyes 
Answer'd, " No !" 

An emotion more fierce seem'd to rise 
And to break into flame, as though fired bv the 

light 
Of that look, in his heart. He exclaim'd, " Am I 

right ? 
You reject //w / accept him!" 

" I have not done so." 
She said firmly. He hoarsely resumed. " Not yet — 

no ! 
But can you with accents as firm promise me 
That you will not accept him ?" 

" Accept .' Is he free ? 
Free to offer.'" she said. 

" You evade me, Lucile," 
He replied ; " ah, you will not avow what you feel ! 
He might make himself free ? Oh, you blush — turn 

away ! 
Dare you openly look in my face, lady, say ! 
While you deign to reply to one question from me 
I may hope not, you tell me : but tell me, may he ? 
What! silent.' I alter my question. If quite 
Freed in faith from this troth, might he hope then .'" 

" He might," 
She said softly. 



Those two whisper'd words, in his breast, 
As he heard them, in one maddening moment re- 
least 
All that 's evil and fierce in man's nature, to crush 
And extinguish in man all th.at 's good. In the 

rush 
Of wild jealousy, all the fierce passions that waste 
And darken and devastate intellect, chased 
From its realm human reason. The wild animal 
In the bosom of man was set free. And of all 
Human passions the fiercest, fierce jealousy, fierce 
As the fire, and more wild than the whirlwind, to 

pierce 
And to rend, rush'd upon him ; fierce jealousy, 

swell'd 
By all passions bred from it, and ever impell'd 
To invohe all things else in the anguish within it, 
And on others inflict its own pangs ! 

At that miimte 
What pass'd through his mind, who shall say.' who 

may tell 
The dark thoughts of man's heart, which the red 

glare of hell 
Can illumine alone .' 

He stared wildly around 
That lone place, so lonely ! That silence ! no 

sound 
Reach'd that room, through the dark evening air, 

save drear 
Drip and roar of the cataract ceaseless and near ! 
It was midnight all round on the weird silent 

weather ; 
Deep midnight in him ! They two, — lone and to- 
gether. 
Himself, and that woman defenceless before him ! 
The triumph and bliss of his rival flash'd o'er him. 
The abvss of his own black despair seem'd to ope 
At his feet, with that awful exclusion of hope 
Which Dante read over the city of doom. 
All the Tarquin pass'd into his soul in the gloom, 
And, uttering words he dared never recall. 
Words of insult and menace, he thunder'd down all 
The brew'd storm-cloud within him : its fi.ishes 

scorch'd blind 
His own senses. His spirit was driven on the wind 
Of a reckless emotion beyond his control ; 
A torrent seem'd loosen'd within him. His soul 
Surged up from that caldron of passion that hiss'd 
And seeth'd in his heart. 



He had thrown, and had miss'd 
His last stake. 

VII.. 

For, transfigured, she rose from the place 
Where he rested o'erawed : a saint's scorn on her 

face ; 
Such a dread %'aclc rclro was written in light 



I.UCILE. 



53 



On her forehead, the fiend would himself, at that 
sight, 

Have sunk back abash d to perdition. I know 

If Lucretia at Tarquin but once had look'd so, 

She had needed no dagger next morning. 

She rose 

And swept to the door, like that phantom the snows 

Feel at nightfall sweep o'er them, when daylight is 
gone. 

And Caucasus is with the moon all alone. 

There she paused ; and, as though from immeasur- 
able, 

Insurpassable distance, she murmur'd — 

" Farewell ! 

We, alas ! have mistaken each other. Once more 

Illusion, to-night, in my lifetime is o'er. 

Due de Luvois, adieu !" 

From the heart-breaking gloom 

Of that vacant, reproachful, and desolate room. 

He felt she was gone — gone forever I 



No word, 
The sharpest that ever was edged like a sword, 
Could have pierced to his heart with such keen ac- 
cusation 
As the silence, the sudden profound isolation. 
In which he remain'd. 

" O return ; I repent !" 
He exclaim'd ; but no sound through the stillness 

was sent. 
Save the roar of the water, in answer to him. 
And the beetle that, sleeping, yet humm'd her night 

hymn : 
An indistinct anthem, that troubled the air 
With a searching, and wistful, and questioning 

prayer. 
" Return," sung the wandering insect. The roar 
Of the waters replied, " Nevermore ! nevermore !" 
He walk'd to the window. The spray on his brow 
Was flung cold from the whirlpools of water below ; 
The frail wooden balcony shook in the sound 
Of the torrent. The mountains gloom 'd sullenly 

round. 
A candle one ray from a closed casement flung. 
O'er the dim balustrade all bewilder'd he hung. 
Vaguely watching the broken and shimmering 

blink 
Of the stars on the. veering and vitreous brink 
Of that snake-like prone column of water ; and 

listing 
Aloof o'er the languors of air the persisting 
Sharp horn of the gravgnat. Before he relinquish'd 
His unconscious employment, that light was e.\- 

tinguish'd. 
Wheels, at last, from the inn door aroused him. He 

r.m 
Down the stairs ; reached the door — just to see her 

depart. 
Down the mountain the carriage was speeding. 




Down the mcuntain the car- 
riage WAS SPEEDING." 



His heart 
Pealed the knell of its 

last hope. Herush'd 

on ; but whither 
He knew not — on, into 

the dark cloudy 

weather — 
The midnight — the 

mountains — on, 

over the shelf 
Of the precipice — on, 

still — away from 

himself ! 
Till, e.xhausted, he 

sank 'mid the dead 

leaves and moss 
At the mouth of the 

forest. A glimmer- 
ing cross 
Of gray stone stood 

for prayer by the 

woodside. He sank 
Prayerless, powerless, 

down at its base, 

'mid the dank 
Weeds and grasses ; his face hid amongst them. 

He knew 
That the night had divided his whole life in two. 
Behind him a Past that was over forever : 
Before him a Future devoid of endeavor 
And purpose. He felt a remorse for the one. 
Of the other a fear. What remain'd to be 

done ? 
Whither now should he turn ? Turn again, as be- 
fore. 
To his old easy, careless existence of yore 
He could not. He felt that for better or worse 
A change had pass'd o'er him ; an angry remorse 
Of his own frantic failure and error had marr'd 
Such a refuge forever. The future seem'd barr'd 
By the corpse of a dead hope o'er which he must 

tread 
To attain it. Life's wilderness round him was 

spread. 
What clew there to cling by ? 

He clung by a name 
To a dynasty fallen forever. He came 
Of an old princely house, true through change to 

the race 
And the sword of Saint Louis — a faiih 't were dis- 
grace 
To relinquish, and folly to live for ! Nor less 
Was his ancient religion (once ])otent to bless 
Or to ban ; and the cro/.ier his ancestors kneel'd 
To adore, when thev fought for the Cross, in hard 

field 
With the Crescent) become, ere it reach'd him, 

tradition ; 
A mere faded badge of a social position ; 



54 



LUCILE. 



A thing to retain and say notliing about. 

Lest, if used, it should draw degradation from doubt. 

Thus, the first time he sought them, the creeds of 

his )()uth 
Wholly fail'd the strong needs of his nianliood. in 

'truth ! 
And beyond them, what region of refuge ? what field 
For employment, this civilized age, did it yield. 
In th.at civili/ed land ? or to thought ? or to action ? 
Blind deliriums, bewikler'd and endless distraction ! 




" A GLIMMERING CKuSS OF GKAV bluNE." 

Not even a desert, not even the cell 
Of a hermit to flee to, wherein he might quell 
The wild tlevil-instincts which now, unreprest. 
Ran riot through that ruin'il world in his breast. 

XI. 

So he lay there, like Lucifer, fresh from the sight 
Of a heaven scaled and lost ; in the wide arms of 

night 
O'er the howling abysses of nothingness ! There 
As he lay. Nature's deep voice was teaching him 

prayer ; 
But what had he to pray to ? 

The winds in the woods. 
The voices abroad o'er those vast solitudes. 
Were in commune all round with the invisible 

Power 
That walk'd the dim world by Himself at that hour. 
But their language he had not yet learn'd — in de- 
spite 
Of the much he had learn'd — or forgotten it quite. 
With its once native accents. Alas ! what had he 
To add to that deep-toned sublime symphony 
Of thanksgiving .' . , . A fier\' finger was still 
Scorching into his heart some dread sentence. His 
will, 



Like a wind that is put to no purpose, was wild 
At its work of destruction within him. The child 
Of an inlidel age, he had been his own god. 
His own devil. 

He sat on the damp mountain sod. 
And stared sullenly up at the dark sky. 

The clouds 
Had heap'd themselves over the bare west in 

crowds 
Of misshapen, incongruous potents. A green 
Streak of dreary', cold, luminous ether, between 
The base of their black barricades, and the ridge 
Of the grim world, gleam'd ghastly, as under some 

bridge. 
Cyclop-sized, in a city of ruins o'erthrowit 
By sieges forgotten, some river, unknown 
And unnamed, widens on into desolate lands. 
While he gazed, that cloud-city invisible hands 
Dismantled and rent ; and reveal'd, through a 

loop 
In the breach'd dark, theblemish'd and half-broken 

hoop 
Of the moon, which soon silently sank ; and anon 
The whole supernatural pageant was gone. 
The wide night, discomforted, conscious of loss, 
Darken 'd round him. One object alone — that gray 

cross — 
Glimmer'd faint on the tiark. Oazing up, he de- 
scried 
Through the void air, its desolate arms outstretch'd 

wide. 
As though to embrace him. 

He turn'd from the sight. 
Set his face to the d,arkness, and tied. 

XII. 

When the light 
Of the dawn gr.iyly flicker'cl and glared on the 

spent 
Wearied ends of the night, like a hope that is 

sent 
To the need of some grief when its need is the 

sorest. 
He was sullenly riding across the dark forest 
Toward Luchon. 

Thus riding, with eyes of defiance 
Set against the voung day, as disclaiming alliance 
With aught that the day brings to man, he perceived 
Faintly, suddenly, fieetingly, through the dam]i- 

leaxed 
Autumn branches th.it put forth gaunt arms on his 

way. 
The face of a man pale and wistful, and gray 
\\'ith the gray glare of morning. Eugene de 

Luvois, 
With the sense of a strange second sight, when he 

saw 
That phantom-like face, could at once recognize. 
By the sole instinct now left to guide him, the eyes 
Of his rival, though fleeting the vision and dim. 
With a stern sad inquir)- fix'd keenly on him. 



"MATILDA IS FAIR, 
MATILDA IS YOUNG-SEE HER NOW, SITTING THERE." 

Pjiiitcd by Tbonijs Mclh\iiiic. 

(Page 7S.) 



r-'^-^^sii^ 



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f.!^**,' 



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Xv 




COPYRIGHT ia©3 QY FREDERrCK A STOMtS COMPANY 



LUCILE. 



3:) 



And, to meet it, a lie leap'd at once to his own ; 

A lie born of that lying darkness now grown 

Over all in his nature ! He answer'd that gaze 

With a look which, if ever a man's look conveys 

More intensely than words what a man means, con- 
vey 'd 

Beyond doubt in its smile an announcement which 
said, 

" / kaiif triuiiipli 'd. The quest ijii vour eves 7uoitld 
iiiiply 

Comes loo jate, Alfred Wirgrave .'" 

.\nd so he rode bv. 

And rode on, and rode gayly, and rode out of 
sight. 

Leaving that look behind him to rankle and bite. 

XIII, 
And it bit, and it rankled. 

XIV. 

Lord .Alfred, scarce knowing. 
Or choosing, or heeding the way he was going. 
By one wild hope impell'd, by one wild fear pursued, 
And led by one instinct, which seem'd to exclude 
From his mind every human sensation, save one — 
The torture of doubt — had stray'd moodily on, 
Down the highway deserted, that evening in which 
With tlie Duke he had parted ; stray'd on, through 

rich 
Haze of sunset, or into the gradual night. 
Which darken'd, unnoticed, the land from his sight. 
Toward Saint Saviour ; nor did the changed aspect 

of all 
The wild scenery round him avail to recall 
To his senses their normal perceptions, until. 
As he stood on the black shaggy brow of the hill 
At the mouth of the forest, the moon, which had 

hung 
Two dark hours in a cloud, slipp'd on fire from 

among 
The rent vapors, and sunk o'er the ridge of the 

world. 
Then he lifted nis eyes, and saw round him un- 

furl'd, 
In one moment of splendor, the leagues of dark 

trees. 
And the long rocky line of the wild Pyrenees. 
And he knew by the milestone scored rough on the 

face 
Of the bare rock, he was but two hours from the 

place 
Where Lucile and Luvois must have met. This 

same track 
The Duke must have traversed, perforce, to get 

back 
To Luchon ; not yet then the Duke had return'd \ 
He listen'd, he look'd up the dark, but discern 'd 
Not a trace, not a sound of a horse by the way. 
He knew that the night was approaching to day. 
He resolved to proceed to Saint Saviour. The mom 




"The long rockv 

line of the wild 

pvrenees." 



Which, at last, through the forest broke chill and 

forlorn, 
Reveal'd to him, riding toward Luchon, the Duke. 
'T was then that the two men exchanged look for 

look. 

XV. 

And the Duke's rankled in him. 

XVI. 

He rush'd on. He tore 
His path through the thicket. He reach'd the inn 

door, 
Roused the yet drowsing porter, reluctant to rise, 
.And inquired for tlie Countess. The man rubb'd 

his eyes. 
The Countess was gone. .And the Duke ? 

The man stared 
•A sleepy inquirw 

With accents that scared 
The man's dull sense awake, " He, the stranger," 

he cried, 
'■ Who had been there that night !" 

The man grinn'd and replied 
With a vacant intelligence, " He, oh av, ay ! 
He went after the lady." 

Xo further replv 
Could he give. .Alfred Vargrave demanded no more. 
Flung a coin to the man, and so turn'd from the 

door. 
" What ! the Duke then the night in that lone inn 

had pass'd ? 
In that lone inn— with her !" Was that look he 

had cast 
When they met in the forest, that look which re- 
main 'd 
On his mind with its terrible smile, thus exjiiaiu'd.' 



The day was half turn'd to the evening, before 
He re-enter'd Luchon, with a heart sick and sore. 
In the midst of a light crowd of b.ibblers, his 

look. 
By their voices attracted, dibtinguished the Duke, 
Gay, insolent, noisy, with eyes sparkling bright. 



56 



LUCILE. 



With laughter, shrill, airy, continuous. 

Right 
Through the throng Alfred \'argrave, with swift 

soinbre stride. 
Glided on. The Duke noticed him, turn'd, stepp'd 

aside, 
And, cordially grasping his hand, whisper'd low, 
" O, how right have you been ! There can never be 

— no, 
Never — any more contest between us ! Milord, 
Let us henceforth be friends !" 

Having utter'd that word, 
He turn'd lightly round on his heel, and again 
His gay laughter was heard, echoed loud by that 

train 
Of his young imitators. 

Lord Alfred stood still. 
Rooted, stunn'd to the spot. He felt weary and ill. 
Out of heart with his own heart, and sick to the 

soul 
With a dull, stilling anguish he could not control. 
Does he hear in a dream, through the buzz of the 

crowd. 
The Duke's blithe associates, babbling aloud 
Some comment upon his gay humor that day ? 
He never was gayer : what makes him so ga\ ? 
'T is, no doubt, say the tlatterers, flattering in tune. 
Some vestal whose virtue no tongue dare impugn 
Has at last found a Mars — who, of course, shall be 

naineless. 
The vestal that yields to Mars only is blameless ! 
Hark ! hears he a name which, thus syllabled, 

stirs 
All his heart into tumult .' . . . Lucile de Nevers 
With the Duke's coupled g.ivlv, in some laughing, 

light. 
Free allusion ? Not so as might give him the right 
To turn fiercely round on the speaker, but yet 
To a trite and irreverent compliment set. 



Slowly, slowly, usurping that place in his soul 
Where the thought of Lucile was enshrined, did 

there roll 
Back again, back again, on its smooth downward 

. course 
O'er his nature, w-ith gather'd momentum and force. 
The world. 

XIX. 

" No !" he mutter'd, " she cannot have sinn'd ! 
True ! women there are (self-named women of 

mind !) 
Who love rather liberty — liberty, yes ! 
To choose and to leave — than the legalized stress 
Of the lovingest marriage. But she — is she so .' 
I will not believe it. Lucile .' Oh no, no ! 
Not Lucile ! 

" But the world ? and, ah, what would it say } 
O the look of that man, and his laughter, to-day ! 
The gossip's light question ! the slanderous jest ! 



She is right ! no, we could not be happy. 'T is best 
As it is. I will write to her — write, O my heart ! 
And accept her farewell. Our farewell ! must we 

part — 
Part thus, then — forever, Lucile } Is it so .' 
Yes ! I feel it. We could not be happy, I know. 
'T was a dream ! we must waken !" 

XX. 

With head bow'd, as though 
By the weight of the heart's resignation, and slow 
Moody footsteps, he turned to his inn. 

Drawn apart 
From the gate, in the court-yard, and ready to 

start. 
Postboys mounted, portmanteaus pack'd up and 

made fast, 
A travelling-carriage, unnoticed, he pass'd. 
He order'd his horse to be ready anon : 
Sent, and paid, for the reckoning, and slowly pass'd 

on. 
And ascended the staircase, and enter'd his room. 
It was twilight. The chamber was dark in the 

gloom 
Of the evening. He listlessly kindled a light. 
On the mantel-piece ; there a large card caught his 

sight— 
A large card, a stout card, well printed and plain, 
Nothing flourishing, flimsy, affected, or vain. 
It gave a respectable look to the slab 
That it lay on. The name was — 



Sir Ridley MacNais. 



Full familiar to him was the name that he saw. 
For 't was that of his own future uncle-in-law, 
Mrs. Darcy's rich brother, the banker, well known 
As wearing the longest philacteried gown 
Of all the rich Pharisees England can boast of ; 
A shrewd Puritan Scot, whose sharp wits made the 

most of 
This world and the next ; having largely invested 
Not onlv where treasure is never molested 
Bv thieves, moth, or rust ; but on this earthly ball 
Where interest was high, and security small. 
Of mankind there was never a theory yet 
Not by some individual instance upset : 
And so to that sorrowful verse of the Psalm 
Which declares that the wicked expand like the 

palm 
In a world where the righteous are stunted and 

pent, 
A cheering exception ditl Ridley present. 
Like the worthy of Uz, Heaven prosper'd his piety. 




r/^iiy^"^- 



**A LARGE CARD CAUGHT HIS SIGHT.' 



58 



LUCII.E. 



The leader ot every religious society, 

Christian knowledge he labor'd ihrcmgh life tn 
promote 

Willi |H-rsoiial profit, and knew how to (|uote 

lloth the Stocks and the Scriptiu'e, with eipial ad- 
vantage 

To himself and admiring friends, in this C.mt-Age. 

xxr. 

Whilst over this card Alfred vacantlv l)r(H)ded, 
A waiter his head through the doorway ])rotruded ; 
" Sir Ridley MacNab with Milord wish'd to 

s])eak." 
Alfred \'argrave could feel there were tears on his 

cheek ; 
He hrush'd them away with a gesture of pride. 
He glanced at the glass ; when his own face he 

eyed, 
He was scared by its pallor. Inclining his hea 1. 
He with tones calm, unshaken, and silvery, said, 
"Sir Ridley may enter." 

In three minutes more 
That benign apparition ai)pear'd at the door. 
Sir Ridley, released for a while from the cares 
Of business, and minded to breathe the pure airs 
Of the blue Pyrenees, and enjoy his release. 
In company there with his sister and niece. 
Found himself now at Luchon — distributing tracts. 
Sowing seed by the way. and collecting new facts 
For F.\eter Hall ; he was starting that night 
For Uigorre : he had heard, to his cordial delight. 
That Lord Alfred was there, and, himself, setting 

out 
For the same destination : impatient, tlo doubt ! 
Here some commonplace compliments as to "the 

marriage" 
Through his s[)eech trickled softlv, like honev : his 

carriage 
Was ready. A storm seem'd to threaten the 

weather : 
If his young friend agreed, why not travel together ? 

With a footstep uncertain and restless, a frown 
Of per]ilexity. during this speech, up and down 
Alfred Vargrave was striding ; but, after a pause 
And a slight hesitation, the which seem'd to cause 
Some surprise to Sir Ridley, he answer'd — "My 

dear 
Sir Ridley, allow me a few moments here — 
Half an hour at the most — to conclude an affair 
Of a nature so urgent as hardly to spare 
My presence (which brought me, indeed, to this 

spot), 
Before I accept your kind ulfrr." 

" Why not ?" 
Said Sir Ridley, and smiled. .\lfrcd \',irgrave, 

before 
Sir Ridley observed it. h.nd pass'd through the door. 
A few moments later, with footsteps revealing 
Intense agitation of uncontroH'd feeling. 
He was rapidly pacing the garden below. 



What pass'd through his mind then is more than I 

know. 
Hut before one half-hour into darkness had fled, 
In the court-yard he stood with Sir Ridley. His 

tread 
Was firm and composed. Not a sign on his face 
lictray'd there the least agit.ition. " The place 




"The two travelleks sieit'd into the cauiciage.'' 

You so kindly have offer'd." he said, " I accept;" 
And he stretch'd out his hand. The two travellers 

stepp'd 
Smiling into the carriage. 

.And thus, out of sight. 
They drove down the dark road, and into the night. 

XXII. 

.Sir Ridley was one of those wise men who. so far 
As their power of saying it goes, say with Zophar, 
" We, no doubt, are the people, and wisdom shall 

die with us." 
Thou.gh of wisdom like theirs there is no sm.dl sup- 
ply with us. 
Side by side in the carriage ensconced, the two men 
Began to converse, somewhat drowsily, when 
.Vlfred suddenly thought — " Here 's a man of ripe 

.At my side, by his fellows reputed as sage. 

Who looks happy, and therefore who must have 

been wise, 
Supi)ose I with caution reveal to his eyes 
Some few of the reasons which make me believe 
That I neither am happy nor wise ? 't would 

relieve 



LUCILE. 



59 



And enlighten, perchance, my own darkness and 

douljl." 
For which purpose a feeler he softly pm out. 
It was snapp'd U)) at once. 

" What is truth ?" jesting Pilate 
Ask'd, and pass'd from the question at once with a 

smile at 
Its utter futilitv. Had he address'd it 
To Ridley MacNab, he at least had confess'd it 
Admitted discussion ! and certainly no man 
Could more |)romptly have answer'd the sceptical 

Koman 
Than Ridley. Hear some street astronomer talk! 
Grant him two or three hearers, a morsel of chalk. 
And forthwith on the iiavement he'll sketch you the 

scheme 
Of the heavens. Then hear him enlarge on his 

theme ! 
Not afraid of La Place, nor of Arago, he ! 
He 'U prove you the whole plan in plain ABC 
Here 's your sun — call him a ; b's the moon ; it is 

clear 
How the rest of the alphabet brings up the rear 
Of the planets. Now ask Arago, ask La Place. 
(Your sages, who speak with the heavens face to 

face !) 
Their science in pl.iin .\ n C to accord 
To your |)oint-blank iiK|uiry, my friends ! not a 

word 
Will you get for vour jjains from their sad li|)s. 

' Alas ! 
Not a dro]) from the bottle that 's quite full will 

pass. 
'T is the half-em|)ty vessel that freest emits 
The water that 's in it. 'T is thus with men's wits ; 
Or at least with their knowledge. A man's capa- 
bility 
Of itnparting to others a truth with facility 
Is proportioned forever with painful exactness 
To the portable nature, the vulgar compactness. 
The minuteness in size, or the lightness in weight 
Of the truth he imparts. So small coins circulate 
More freely than large ones. A beggar asks alms, 
And we fling him a sixpence, nor feel any qualms ; 
But if every street charity shook an investment. 
Or each beggar to clothe w^e must strip off a vest- 
ment, 
•The length of the process would limit the act ; 
And therefore the truth that 's summ'd up in a tract 
Is most lightly dispensed. 

As for Alfred, indeed. 
On what spoonfuls of truth he was suffer'd to feed 
By Sir Ridley, I know not. This only I know. 
That the two men thus talking continued to go 
Onward somehow, together— on into the night— 
The midnight — in which they escaiK- from our 
sight. 

XXIII. 

And meanwhile a world had been changed in its 
place, 



And those glittering chains that o'er blue balmy 

sjjacc 
Il.ingthe blessing of d.arkness, had drawn out of 

sight. 
To solace unseen hemisi^heres, the soft night ; 
And the dew of the dayspring benignly descended, 
And the fair morn to all things new sanction 

extended, 
In the smile of the East. And the lark soaring on. 
Lost in light, shook the dawn with, a song from the 

sun. 
And the world l.iugh'd. 

It wanted but two rosy hours 
From the noon, when they pass'd through the thick 

passion flowers 
Of the little wild garden that dimpled before 
The small house where their carriage now- stopp'd, 

at Bigorre. 
And more fair than the llowers, more fresh than 

the dew. 
With her white morning robe flitting joyously 

through 
The dark shrubs with which the soft hillside was 

clothed, 
Alfred Vargrave perceived, where he paused, his 

betrothed. 
Matilda sprang to him, at once, w-ith a face 
Of such sunny sweetness, such gladness, such grace, 
And radiant confidence, childlike delight. 
That his whole heart u|)braided itself at that sight. 
And he murmur'd, or sigh'd. " O, how could I have 

stray'cl 
From this sweet child, or suffer'd in aught to invade 
Her young claim on my life, though it were for an 

hour, 
The thought of another ?" 

" Look u]), my sweet flower I" 
He whispcr'd her softly, " my heart unto thee 
Is return 'd, as returns to the rose the wild bee I" 
" And will wander no more ?" laugh'd Matilda. 

" Xo more." 
He repeated. And, low to himself, " Yes, 't is o'er ! 
My course, too, is decided, Lucile ! Was I blind 
To have dream'd that these clever Frenchwomen of 

mind 
Could satisfy simply a jdain English heart. 
Or sympathize with it ?" 



And here the first part 
Of this drama is over. The curtain falls furl'd 
(Jn the actors within it— the Heart, and the World. 
Woo'd and wooer have plav'd with the riddle of 

life.— 
Have they solved it? 

Appear! answer, Husband and Wife ! 



Yet, ere bidding farewell to Lucile de Xevers, 
Hear her own heart's farewell in this letter of hers. 




' Matilda sprang to him. 



LUCILE. 



6i 



The Comtesse de Nevers to a Friend in 
India. 

" Once more, O my friend, to your arms antl your 

heart, 
And the places of old . . . never, never to part ! 
Once more to the palm, and the fountain ! Once 

more 
To the land of my birth, and the deep skies of 

yore ! 
From the cities of Europe, pursued by the fret 
Of their turmoil wherever my footsteps are set ; 
From the children that cry for the birth, and be- 
hold. 
There is no strength to bear them — old Time is so 

old! 
From the world's weary masters, that come upon 

earth 
Sapp'd and mined by the fever ihey bear from 

their birth ; 
From the men of small stature, mere parts of a 

crowd. 
Born too late, w'hen the strength of the world hath 

been bow'd ; 
Back, —back to the Orient, from whose sunbright 

womb 
Sprang the giants which now are no more, in the 

bloom 
And the beauty of times that are faded forever ! 
To the palms ! to the tombs ! to the still Sacred 

River ! 
Where I too, the child of a day that is done. 
First leapt into life, and look'd up at the sun. 
Back again, back again, to the hill-tops of home 
I come, O my friend, my consoler, I come ! 
Are the three intense stars, that we watch'd night 

by night 
Burning broad on the band of Orion, as bright .'' 
Are the large Indian moons as serene as of old. 
When, as children, we gather'd the moonbeams for 

gold ? 
Do you yet recollect me, mv friend } Do vou 

still 
Remember the free games we play'd on the hill, 
'Mid those huge stones up-heap'd, where we reck- 
lessly trod 
O'er the old ruin'd fane of the old ruined god } 
How he frown 'd while around him we carelessly 

play'd ! 
That frown on my life ever after hath stay'd. 
Like the shade of a solemn experience upcast 
From some vague supernatural grief in the past. 
For the poor god, in pain, more than anger, he 

frown 'd. 
To perceive that our youth, though so fleeting, had 

found. 
In its transient and ignorant gladness, the bliss 
Which his science divine seem'd divinely to miss. 
Alas! you may haply remember me vet 
The free child, whose glad childhood myself I 

forget. 




To THE STILL SA- 
CKED River." 



I come — a sad woman, defrauded of rest : 

I bear to you only a laboring breast : 

My heart is a storm-beaten ark, wildly hurl'd 

O'er the whirlpools of time, with the wrecks of a 

world. 
The do\-e from my bosom hatli flown far away : 
It is flown, and returns not, though many a day 
Have I watch'd from the windows of life for its 

coming. 
Friend, I sigh for repose, I am weary of roaming. 
I know not what Ararat rises for me 
Far away, o'er the waves of the wandering sea : 
I know not what rainbow may yet, from far hills. 
Lift the promise of hope, the cessation of ills : 
Hut a voice, like the voice of my youth, in my 

breast 
Wakes and whispers me on — to the East ! to the 

East ! 
Shall I find the child's heart that I left there? or find 
The lost youth I recall with its pure peace of mind ? 
Alas ! who shall number the drops of the rain .' 
Or give to the dead leaves their greenness again ? 
Who shall seal up the caverns the earthquake hath 

rent ? 
Who shall bring forth the winds that within them 

are pent } 
To a voice who shall render an image .' or who 
From the heats of the noontide shall gather the dew.' 
I have burn'd out within me the fuel of life. 
Wherefore lingers the flame ? Rest is sweet after 

strife. 
I would sleep for a while. I am weary. 

•• My friend, 
I had meant in these lines to regather, and send 
To our old home, my life's scatter'd links. But 't is 

vain ! 
Each attempt seems to shatter the chaplet again ; 
Only fit now for fingers like mine to run o'er. 
Who return, a recluse, to those cloisters of yore 



LUCILE. 




' Hark ! the sigh ok the wind, and the sound of i hk wave.'' 

Wlience too far I have waiulcr'd. 

" How many lout; years 

Does it seem to me now since the quick, scorching 
tears. 

While I wrote to you, s])lash'cl out a girl's prema- 
ture 

j\loans of pain at what women in silence en- 
dure ! 

To your eyes, friend of mine, and to \mneyes 
alone, 

That now long-faded page of my life hath been 
shown 

■Which recorded my heart's birth, and death, as you 
know, 

Many years since, — how many ! 

" A few months ago 

I seem'd reading it backward, that page ! Why 
explain 

Whence or how.' The old dream of my life rose 
again. 

The old superstition I the idol of old ! 

It is over. The leaf trodden down in the mould 

Is not to the forest more lost tban to me 

That emotion. I l)ury it here by the sea 

Which will beai- me anon far away from the 
shore 

Of a land which my footsteps shall visit no 
more. 

And a heart's reqiciescai I write on that grave. 

Hark ! the sigh of the wind, and the sound of the 
wave, 



Seem like voices of spirits that whisper me home ! 
I come, O you whispering voices, I come ! 
My friend, ask me nothing. 

" Receive me alone 
Asa Santon receives to his dwelling of stone 
In silence some pilgrim the midnight may bring; 
It maybe an angel that, weary of \ying. 
Hath ]iauscd in his flight from some city of 

doom. 
Or oidy a wayfarer stray'd in the gloom. 
This only I know : that in Europe at least 
Lives the craft or the power that must master our 

East. 
Wherefore sirive where the gods must themselves 

yield at last ? 
I'.oth thev and their altars pass by with the Past. 
The gods of the household Time thrusts from the 

shelf ; 
And I seem as unreal and weird to myself 
As those idols of old. 

" Other times, other men. 
Other men, other passions ! 

" So be it ! yet again 
I turn to my birthplace, the birthplace of morn, 
And the light of those lands where the great sun is 

born ! 
Spread your arms, O my friend ! on your breast let 

me feel 
The repos"" which hath lied from my own. 

" Your LL'CILE." 



PART II. 



CANTO I. 



Hail, Muse! Rut each Muse bv this lime has, 

I know, 
Been used up, and Apollo has bent his own bow 
All too long ; so I leave unassaulted the portal 
Of Olympus, and only invoke here a mortal. 

Hail, Murray! — not Lindley, — but Murray and 

Son. 
Hail, omniscient, lieneficent, great Two-in-()ne! 
In Albemarle Street may thy temple long stand! 
Long enlighten'd and led by thine erudite hand. 
May each novice in science nomadic unravel 
.Statistical mazes of modernized travel ! 
May each inn-keeping knave long thy judgments 

revere, 
And the postboys of Europe regard thee with fear; 
While thev feel, in the silence of Ijaffled e.vtortion, 
That knowledge is power ! Long, long, like that 

portion 



LUCII.E. 



63 



Of the national soil which the Greek exile took 
In his baggage wherever he went, may thy book 
Cheer each poor British pilgrim, who trusts to thy 

wit 
Not to pay through his nose just for following it ! 
May'st thou long, O instructor ! preside o'er his 

way, 
And teach him alike what to praise and to pay ! 
Thee, pursuing this pathway of song, once again 
1 invoke, lest, unskill'd, I should wander in vain. 
To my call be propitious, nor, churlish, refuse 
Thy great accents to lend to the lips of my Muse ; 
For 1 sing of the Naiads who dwell 'mid the stems 
Of the green linden-trees by the waters of Ems. 
Yes ! thy spirit descends ujjon mine, O John Mur- 
ray ! 
And 1 start— with thy book — for the Baths in a 
hurry. 

II. 

" At Coblentz a bridge of boats crosses the Rhine, 
And from thence the road, winding by Ehrenbreit- 

stein, 
Passes over the frontier of Nassau. 

(" N. B. 
No custom-house here since the Zollverein." See 
Murray, paragraph 30.) 

" The route, at each turn, 
Here the lover of nature allows to discern. 
In varying prospect, a rich wooded dale ; 
The vine and acacia-tree mostly prevail 
In the foliage observable here ; and, moreover, 
The soil is carbonic. The road, under cover 
Of the grape-clad and mountainous upland that 

hems 
Round this beautiful spot, tirings the traveller to — 

'■ E.MS. 
A Schnellpost from Frankfort arrives every day. 
At the Kurhaus (the old Ducal mansion) you pay 
Eight florins for lodgings. A Restaurateur 
Is attach'd to the ])lace ; but most travellers jjrefer 
(Including, indeed, many persons of notel 
To dine at the usual-priced table d'hote. 
Through the town runs the Lahn, the steep green 

banks of which 
Two rows of while jjicturesque houses enrich ; 
And between the high road and the river is laid 
Out a sort of a garden, call'd ' The Promenade.' 
Female visitors here, who may make up their mind 
To ascend to the top of these mountains, will find 
On the banks of the stream, saddled all the day 

long. 
Troops of donkeys — sure-footed — proverbially 

strong ;" 
And the traveller at Ems may remark, as he passes. 
Here, as elsewhere, the women run after the asses. 



'Mid the world's weary denizens bound for these 
springs 



In the month when the merle on the ma])le-bough 

sings. 
Pursued to the place from dissimilar paths 
I5y a similar sickness, there came to the baths 
Four sufferers — each stricken deep through the 

heart. 
Or the head, by the selfsame invisible dart 
Of the arrow that Hieth unheard in the noon. 
From the sickness that walketh unseen in the 

moon. 
Through this great lazaretto of life, wherein each 
Infects with his own sores the next within reach. 
First of these were a young English husband and 

wife. 
Grown wear\' ere half through the journey of life. 
() Nature, sav where, thou gray mother of earth. 
Is the strength of thy youth .' that thy womb brings 

to birth 
Only old men to-day ! On the winds, as of old, 
Thy voice in its accent is joyous and bold ; 
Thy forests are green as of yore ; and thine oceans 
Yet move in the might of their ancient emotions : 
But man — thy last birth and thy best — is no more 
Life's free lord, that look'd up to the starlight of 

yore. 
With the faith on the brow, and the fire in the 

eves. 
The firm foot on the earth, the high lu-art in the 

skies ; 
But a gray-headed infant, defrauded of youth. 
Born too late or too early. 

The lady, in truth. 
Was young, fair, and gentle ; and never was given 
To more heavenly eyes the pure azure of heaven. 
Never yet did the sun touch to ripples of gold 
Tresses brighter than those which her soft hand 

unroU'd 
From lier noble and innocent brow, when she rose, 
.-\n Aurora, at dawn, froin her balmy repose, 
.And into the mirror the bloom and the blush 
Of her beauty broke, glowing ; like light in a gush 
From the sunrise in summer. 

Love, roaming, shall meet 
But rarely a nature more sound or more sweet — 
Eyes brighter — brows whiter — a figure more fair — 
Or lovelier lengths of more radiant hair — 
Than thine, Lady Alfred ! And here I aver 
(May those that have seen thee declare if I err) 
That not all the oysters in Britain contain 
A pearl pure as thou art. 

Let some one explain, — 
Who may know more than I of the intimate life 
Of the ])earl with the oyster, — why yet in his wife, 
In despite of her beauty — and most when he felt 
His soul to the sense of her loveliness melt- 
Lord Alfred miss'd something he sought for: in- 
deed. 
The more that he miss'd it the greater the need ; 
Till it seem'd to himself he could willingly spare 
All the charms that he found for the one charm not 

there. 



64 



LUCILE. 



IV. 

For the blessings Life lends us. it strictly demands 
The worth of their full usufruct at our hands. 
And the value of all things exists, not indeed 
In themselves, but man's use of them, feeding man's 

need. 
Alfred Vargrave, in wedding with beauty and youth, 
Had embraced both Ambition and Wealth. Yet in 

truth 
Unfulfill'd the ambition, and sterile the wealth 
(In a life paralyzed by a moral ill-health), 



■V" 












''«. 



*''T IS THE s.A.ME LITTLE CrpID." 

Had remain'd, while the beauty and youth, unre- 

deem'd 
From a vague disappointment at all things, but 

^ seem'd 
Day by day to reproach him in silence for all 
That lost youth in himself they had fail'd to recall. 
No career had he foUow'd. no object obtain'd 
In the world by those worldly advantages gain'd 
From nuptials beyond which once seem'd to appear 
Lit by love, the broad path of a brilliant career. 
All that glitter'd and gleam'd through the moon- 
light of youth 
With a glor)' so fair, now that manhood in truth 
Grasp'd and gather'd it, seem'd like that false fairy 

gold 
Which leaves in the hand only moss, leaves, and 
mould ! 



Fair}- gold ! moss and leaves ! and the young Fairy- 
Bride ? 
Lived there yet fair)--lands in the face at his side ? 
Say, O friend, if at evening thou ever hast watch'd 
Some pale and impalpable vapor, detach'd 
From the dim and disconsolate earth, rise and fall 
O'er the light of a sweet serene star, until all 
The chill'd splendor reluctantly waned in the deep 
Of its own native heaven ? Even so seem'd to creep 
O'er that fair and ethereal face, day by day, 
While the radiant vermeil, subsiding away, 
Hid its light in the heart, the faint gradual veil 
Of a sadness unconscious. 

The lady grew pale 
As silent her lord grew : and both, as they eyed 
Each the other askance, turn'd, and secretly sigh'd. 
Ah, wise friend, what avails all experience can give ? 
True, we know what life is — but, alas ! do we live ? 
The grammar of life we have gotten by heart. 
But life's self we have made a dead language — 

an art. 
Not a voice. Could we speak it, but once, as 't was 

spoken 
When the silence of passion the first time was 

broken ! 
Cuvier knew the world better than Adam, no doubt : 
But the last man, at best, was but learned about 
What the first, without learning, enjoy d. What 

art thou 
To the man of to-day, O Leviathan, now .' 
A science. What wert thou to him that from ocean 
First beheld thee appear ? A surprise, — an emo- 

■ tion ! 
When life leaps in the veins, when it beats in the 

heart, 
When it thrills as it fills every animate part. 
Where lurks it ? how works it ? . . . we scarcely 

detect it. 
But life goes: the heart dies : haste, O leech, and 

dissect it ! 
This accursed sesthetical, ethical age 
Hath so finger'd life's hornbook, so blurr'd every 

page. 
That the old glad romance, the gay chivalrous story 
With its fables of faery, its legends of glor,-. 
Is turn'd to a tedious instruction, not new 
To the children that read it insipidly through. 
We know too much of Love ere we love. We can 

trace 
Nothing new, unexpected, or strange in his face 
When we see it at last. 'T is the same little 

Cupid, 
With the same dimpled cheek, and the smile almost 

stupid. 
We have seen in our pictures, and stuck on our 

shelves. 
And copied a hundred times over, ourselves. 
And wherever we turn, and whatever we do, 
Still, that horrible sense of the deja conmc! 



LUCILE. 



65 



VI. 

Perchance 't was the fault of the hfethat they led ; 
Perchance 't was the fault of the novels they read ; 
Perchance 't was a fault in themselves ; I am bound 

not 
To say : this I know — that these two creatures found 

not 
In each other some sign they expected to find 
Of a something unnamed in the heart or the mind ; 
And, missing it, each felt a right to complain 
Of a sadness which each found no word to exjilain. 
Whatever it was, the world noticed not it 
In the light-hearted beauty, the light-hearted wit. 
Still, as once with the actors in Greece, 't is the 

case, 
Each must speak to the crown with a mask on his 

face. 
Praise follow'd Matilda wherever she went. 
She was flatter'd. Can flattery purchase content .' 
Yes. While to its voice, for a moment, she listen'd. 
The young cheek still bloom'd, and the soft eyes 

still glisten'd ; 
And her lord, when, like one of those light vivid 

things 
That glide down the gauzes of summer with wings 
Of rapturous radiance, unconscious she moved 
Through that buzz of inferior creatures, which 

proved 
Her beauty, their envy, one moment forgot 
'Mid the many charms there, the one charm that 

was not : 
And when o'er her beauty enraptured he bow'd, 
(As they turn'd to each other, each tfush'd from 

the crowd,) 
And murmur'd those praises which yet seem'd 

more dear 
Than the praises of others had grown to her 

ear, 
She, too, ceased awhile her own fate to regret : 
" Yes ! ... he loves me," she sigh'd ; " this is love, 

then — and yet — .'" 



Ah. that _)'(•/.' fatal word ! 't is the moral of all 
Thought and felt, seen or done, in this world since 

the Fall! 
It stands at the end of each sentence we learn ; 
It flits in the vista of all we discern ; 
It leads us, forever and ever, away 
To find in to-morrow what flies with to-day. 
'T was this same little fatal and mystical word 
That now, like a mirage, led my lady and lord 
To the waters of Ems from the waters of Marah ; 
Drooping pilgrims in Fashion's blank, arid Sahara! 

VIII. 

At the same time, pursued by a spell much the 

same. 
To these waters two other worn pilgrims there 

came ; 



One a man, one a woman : just now. at the latter, 
-As the Reader I mean by and by to look at her 
And judge for himself, I will not even glance. 



Of the self-crown 'd young kings of the Fashion in 

France, 
Whose resplendent regalia so dazzled the sight. 
Whose horse was so perfect, whose boots were so 

bright, 
Who so hailed in the salon, so marked in the Bois, 
Who so welcomed by all, as Eugene de Luvois .' 
Of all the smooth-brow'd premature debauchees 
In that town of all towns, where Debauchery sees 
On the forehead of youth her mark everywhere 

graven, — 
In Paris I mean, — where the streets are all paven 
By those two fiends whom Milton saw bridging 

the way 
From Hell to this planet, — who, haughty and gay. 
The free rebel of life, bound or led by no law, 
Walk'd that causeway as bold as Eugene de Luvois "? 
Yes ! he march'd through the great masquerade, 

loud of tongue. 
Bold of brow : but the motley he mask'd in, it hung 
So loose, trail'd so wide, and appear'd to impede 
So strangely at times the vex'd effort at speed. 
That a keen eye might guess it was made — not for 

him. 
But some brawler more stalwart of stature and limb. 
That it irk'd him, in truth, you at times could divine, 
For when low was the music, and spilt was the wine. 
He would clutch at the garment, as though it op- 

press'd 
.And stifled some impulse that choked in his breast. 



What ! he, . . . the light sport of his frivolous 

ease ! 
Was he, too, a prev to a mortal disease ? 
My friend, hear a parable : ponder it well : 
For a moral there is in the tale that 1 tell. 
One evening I sat in the Palais Royal, 
And there, while I laugh'd at Grassot and .Arnal, 
My eye fell on the face of a man at my side ; 
Ever)' time that he laugh'd I observed that he 

sigh'd. 
As though vex'd to be pleased. I remark'd that he 

sat 
111 at ease on his seat, and kept twirling his hat 
In his hand, with a look of unquiet abstraction. 
I inquired the cause of his dissatisfaction. 
" Sir." he said, " if what vexes me here \ou would 

know. 
Learn that, passing this way some few half-hours 

ago, 
I walk'd into the Fran(;ais, to look at Rachel. 
(Sir, that woman in Phedre is a miracle!) — Well, 
I ask'd for a box : they were occupied all : 
For a seat in the balcony : all taken ! a stall : 



66 



LUCILE. 



Taken too : the whole house was as full as could 

be- 
Not a hole for a rat ! I had just time to see 
The lady I love tete-a-tete with a friend 
In a box out of reach at the opposite end : 
Then the crowd push'd me out. What was left 

me to do ? 
I tried for the tragedy . . . que vonlez-voiis ? 
Every place for the tragedy book'd ! . . . inon ami. 
The farce was close by : ... at the farce me void ! 
The piece is a new one : and Grassot plays well : 
There is drollery, too, in that fellow Ravel : 
And Hyacinth's nose is superb ! . . . yet I meant 
My evening elsewhere, and not thus, to have spent. 
Fate orders these things by her will, not by ours ! 
Sir, mankind is the sport of invisible powers." 
I once met the Due de Luvois for a moment ; 
And 1 mark'd, when his features I tix'd in my com- 
ment. 
O'er those features the same vague disquietude stray 
I had seen on the face of my' friend at the play ; 
And I thought that he too, very probably, spent 
His evenings not wholly as first he had meant. 



O source of the holiest joys we inherit, 

O Sorrow, thou solemn, invisible spirit ! 

Ill fares it with man when, through life's desert 

sand. 
Grown impatient too soon for the long promised 

land. 



XII. 



It 



th 




" The lamps were beginning to gleam.'' 

He turns fronr the worship of thee, as thou art. 
An exjiressless and imageless truth in the heart. 
And takes of the jewels of Egypt, the pelf 
And the gold of the Godless, to make to him- 
self 
A gaudy, idolatrous image of thee. 
And then bows to the sound of the cymbal the 

knee. 
The sorrows we make to ourselves are false gods : 
Like the proi^hets of Baal, our bosoms with rods 
We may smite, we may gash at our hearts till thev 

bleed. 
But these idols are blind, deaf, and dumb to our 

need. 
The land is athirst, and cries out ! . . . 't is in vain ; 
The great blessing of Heaven descends not in rain. 



amps were beginning to 
nden-trees, folded each in his 
which looks like a temple . . . 



was night ; and 

gleam 
Through the long 1 

dream. 
From that building 

and is 

The temple of — Health ? Nay, but enter ! I wis 
That never the rosy-hued deity knew 
"One votary out of that sallow-cheek'd crew 
Of Courlanders, Wallacs, Greeks, affable Russians, 
Explosive Parisians, potato-faced Prussians ; 
Jews — Hamburgers, chiefly ; — pure patriots — Sua- 

bians ; — 
" Cappadocians and Elamites, Cretes and Arabians, 
And the dwellers in Pontus" . . . My muse will 

not weary 
More lines with the list of them . . . cur fre- 

nniere ? 
What is it they murmur, and mutter, and hum ? 
Into what Pandemonium is Pentecost come ? 
Oh, what is the name of the god at whose fane 
Every nation is mix'd in so motley a train } 
What weird Kabala lies on those tables outspread ? 
To what oracle turns with attention each head ? 
What holds these pale worshippers each so devout. 
And what are those hierophants busied about? 

xin. 

Here passes, repasses, and flits to and fro. 

And rolls without ceasing the great Yes and No : 

Round this altar alternate the weird Passions dance. 

And the God worshipp'd here is the old God of 
Chance. 

Through the wide-open doors of the distant saloon 

Flute, hautboy, and fiddle are squeaking in tune ; 

And an indistinct music forever is roll'd. 

That mixes and chimes with the chink of the 
gold. 

From a vision, that flits in a luminous haze. 

Of figures forever eluding the gaze ; 

It fleets through the doorway, it gleams on the 
glass. 

And the weird words pursue it — Rouge, Impair, 
el Passe .' 

Like a sound borne in sleep through such dreams 
as encumber 

With haggard emotions the wild wicked slumber 

Of some witch when she seeks, through a night- 
mare, to grab at 

The hot hoof of the fiend, on her way to the Sab- 
bat. 

XIV. 

The Due de Luvois and Lord Alfred had met 
Some few evenings ago (for the season as yet 
Was but young) in this selfsame Pavilion 

Chance. 
The idler from Ensrland, the idler from France 



of 



LUCILE. 



67 



Shook hands, each, of course, wiih much cordial 
pleasure : 

An acquaintance at Ems is to most men a treas- 
ure, 

And they both were too well-bred in aught to be- 
tray 

One discourteous remembrance of things pass'd 
away. 

'T was a sight that was pleasant, indeed, to be 
seen, 

These friends exchange greetings; — the men who" 
had been 

Foes so nearly in days that were past. 

This, no doubt. 

Is why, on the night I am speaking about. 

My Lord .-Alfred sat down by himself at roulette. 

Without one suspicion his bosom to fret. 

Although he had left, with his pleasant French 
friend, 

Matilda, half vex'd, at the room's farthest end. 



Lord Alfred his combat with Fortune began 
With a few modest thalers — away they all ran — 
The reserve foUow'd fast in the rear. .As his 

purse 
Grew lighter his spirits grew sensibly worse. 
One needs not a Bacon to find a cause for it : 
'T is an old law in physics — A'utura abhorret 
X'acuwn — and my lord, as he watch'd his last 

crown 
Tumble into the bank, turn'd away with a frown 
Which the brows of Napoleon himself might have 

deck'd 
On that day of all d.iys when an empire was 

wreck'd 
On thy plain, Waterloo, and he witnessed the last 
Of his favorite Guard cut to pieces, aghast ! 
Just then Alfred felt, he could scarcely tell why. 
Within him the sudden strange sense that some eye 
Had long been intently regarding him there, — 
That some gaze was upon him too searching to 

bear. 
He rose and look'd up. Was it fact .' Was it 

fable ? 
Was it dream ? Was it waking ? Across the green 

table. 
That face, with its features so fatally known — 
Those eyes, whose deep gaze answer'd strangely 

his own — 
What was it.' Some ghost from its grave come 

again .' 
Some cheat of a feverish, fanciful brain .' 
Or was it herself — with those deep eyes of hers. 
And that face unforgotten .' — Lucile de Nevers ! 



Ah, well that pale woman a phantom might seem. 
Who appear'd to herself but the dream of a dream ! 



'Xeath those features so calm, that fair forehead so 

hush'd. 
That pale cheek forever by passion untlush'd. 
There yawn'd an insatiate void, and there heaved 
A tumult of restless regrets unrelieved. 
The brief noon of beauty was passing away, 
.And the chill of the twilight fell, silent and gray, 
O'er that deep, self-perceived isolation of soul. 
And now, as all round her the dim evening stole, 
With its weird desolations, she inwardly grieved 
For the want of that tender assurance received 
From the warmth of a whisper, the glance of an eye. 
Which should say, or should look, " Fear thou 

naught — / am by !" 
And thus, through that lonely and self-fix'd ex- 
istence, 
Crept a vague sense of silence, and horror, and 

distance : 
A strange sort of faint-footed fear, — like a mouse 
That comes out, when 't is dark, in some old ducal 

house 
Long deserted, where no one the creature can scare, 
.And the forms on the arras are all that move there. 
In Rome, — in the Forum, — there open'd one night 
A gulf. -AH the augurs turn'd pale at the sight. 
In this omen the anger of Heaven they read. 
Men consulted the gods : then the oracle said : — 
" Ever open this gulf shall endure, till at last 
That which Rome hath most precious within it be 

cast." 
The Romans threw in it their corn and their stuff. 
But the gulf yawn'd as wide. Rome seeni'd likely 

enough 
To be ruin 'd ere this rent in her heart she could choke. 
Then Curtius, revering the oracle, spoke : 
" O Quirites I to this Heaven's question is come ; 
What to Rome is most precious ? The manhood 

of Rome." 
He plunged, and the gulf closed. 

The tale is not new ; 
But the moral applies many ways, and is true. 
How, for hearts rent in twain, shall the curse be 

destroy 'd ? 
'T is a warm human life that must fill up the void. 
Thorough many a heart runs the rent in the fable, 
But who to discover a Curtius is able ? 

XVII. 

Back she came from her long hiding-place, at the 

source 
Of the sunrise ; where, fair in their fabulous course. 
Run the rivers of Eden : an exile again. 
To the cities of Europe — the scenes, and the men. 
And the life, and the ways, she had left ; still op- 

press'd 
With the same hungry heart, and unpeaceable 

breast. 
The same, to the same things ! The world, she had 

(juitted 
Wi;h a sigh, with a sigh she re-enter'd. Soon 

flitted 



68 



LUCILE. 



Through the salons and clubs, to the great satis- 
faction 
Of Paris, the news of a novel attraction. 
The enchanting Lucile, the gay Countess, once 

more 
To her old friend, the World, had re-open'd her 

door ; 
The World came, and shook hands, and was pleased 

and amused 
With what the World then went away and abused. 
From the woman's fair fame it in naught could 

detract : 
'T was the woman's free genius it vex'd and at- 

tack'd 
With a sneer at her freedom of action and speech. 
But its light careless cavils, in truth, could not 

reach 
The lone heart they aim'd at. Her tears fell beyond 
The world's limit, to feel that the world could re- 
spond 
To that heart's deepest, innermost yearning, in 

naught. 
'T was no longer this earth's idle inmates she 

sought : 
The wit of the woman sufficed to engage 
In the woman's gay court the first men of the 

age. 
Some had genius ; and all, wealth of mind to 

confer 
On the world : but that wealth was not lavish 'd for 

her. 
For the genius of man, though so human indeed. 
When call'd out to man's help by some great hu- 
man need. 
The right to a man's chance acquaintance refuses 
To use what it hoards for mankind's nobler uses. 
Genius touches the world at but one point alone 
Of that spacious circumference, never cjuite known 
To the world : all the infinite number of lines 
That radiate thither a mere point combines. 
But one only, — some central affection apart 
From the reach of the world, in which Genius is 

Heart, 
And love, life's fine centre, includes heart and mind. 
And therefore it was that Lucile sigh'd to find 
Men of genius appear, one and all in her ken. 
When they stoop'd themselves to it, as mere clever 

men ; 
Artists, statesmen, and they in whose works are 

unfurl'tl 
Worlds new-fashion'd for man, as mere men of the 

world. 
And so, as alone now she stood, in the sight 
Of the sunset of youth, with her face from the light. 
And watch'd her own shadow grow long at her feet. 
As though stretch'd out, the shade of some other 

to meet. 
The woman felt homeless and childless : in scorn 
She seem'd mock'd by the voices of children unborn ; 
And when from these sombre reflections away 
She turn'd, with a sigh, to that gay world, more gay 



For her presence within it, she knew herself friend- 
less ; 

That her path led from peace, and that path ap- 
pear'd endless : 

That even her beauty had been but a snare, 

And her wit sharpen'd only the edge of despair. 



M'ith a face all transfigured and flush "d by surprise 
Alfred turn'd to Lucile. With those deep search- 
ing eyes 
She look'd into his own. Not a word that she said. 
Not a look, not a blush, one emotion betray 'd. 
She seem'd to smile through him, at something 

beyond : 
When she answer'd his questions, she seem'd to 

respond 
To some voice in herself. With no trouble descried, 
To each troubled inquiry she calmly replied. 
Not so he. At the sight of that face back again 
To his mind came the ghost of a long-stifled pain, 
A remember'd resentment, half check'd by a wild 
And relentful regret like a motherless child 
Softly seeking admittance, with plaintive appeal, 
To the heart which resisted its entrance. 

Lucile 
And himself thus, however, with freedom allow'd 
To old friends, talking still side by side, left the 

crowd 
By the crowd unobser\-ed. Not unnoticed, however. 
By the Duke and Matilda. Matilda had never 
Seen her husband's new friend. 

She had follow'd by chance. 
Or by instinct, the sudden half-menacing glance 
Which the Duke, when he witness'd their meeting, 

had turn'd 
On Lucile and Lord Alfred ; and, scared, she dis- 

cern'd 
On his feature the shade of a gloom so profound 
That she shudder'd instinctively. Deaf to the 

sound 
Of her voice, to some startled inquir\' of hers 
He replied not, but murmur'd, " Lucile de Nevers 
Once again then .' so be it !" In the mind of that 

man. 
At that moment, there shaped itself vaguely the plan 
Of a purpose malignant and dark, such alone 
(To his own secret heart but imperfectly shown) 
As could spring from the cloudy, fierce chaos of 

thought 
By which all his nature to tumult was wrought. 

XIX. 

" So !" he thought, " they meet thus : and reweave 

the old charm ! 
And she hangs on his voice, and she leans on his 

arm. 
And she heeds me not, seeks me not, recks not of 

me ! 
Oh, what if I show'd her that I, too, can be 



•THIS POOR flower; she said, 'SEEMS IT NOT OUT 

OF PLACE 
IN THIS HOT, LAMPLIT AIR, WITH ITS FRESH, FRAGILE 

GRACE?'" 

Pj/iili'd by Thouijs MiilvjiJie. 



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LUCILE. 



69 



Loved by one — her own rival — more fair and more 

young^?" 
The serpent rose in him : a serpent which, stunj^, 
Sought to sting. 

Each imconscious, indeed, of the eye 
Fix'd upon them, Lucile and my lord saunter'd by. 
In converse which seem'd to be earnest. A smile 
Now and then seem'd to show where their thoughts 

touch'd. Meanwhile 
The muse of this stor)\ convinced that they need 

her. 
To the Duke and Matilda returns, gentle Reader. 

XX. 

The Duke, with that sort of aggressive false praise 
Which is meant a resentful remonstrance to 

raise 
From a listener (as sometimes a judge, just before 
He pulls down the black cap, very gently goes o'er 



" This poor flower," she said. " seems it not out of 

place 
In this hot. lam])lit air. with its fresh, fragile grace ?" 
She bent her head low as she spoke. 'VV'ith a smile 
The Duke watch'd her caressing the leaves all the 

while. 
And continued on his side the silence. He knew 
This would force his companion their talk to renew 
At the point that he w-ish'd ; and Matilda divined 
The significant pause with new trouble of mind. 
She lifted one moment her head ; but her look 
Encounter'd the ardent regard of the Duke, 
And dropp'd back on her floweret abash'd. Then, 

still seeking 
The assurance she fancied she show'd him liy 

sjieaking. 
She conceived herself safe in adopting again 
The theme she should most have avoided just. 

then. 



,.'(,/ 




'The sbrpbnt rose in him.^' 



The case for the prisoner, and deals tenderly 
With the man he is minded to hang by and by), 
Had referr'd to Lucile, and then stopp'd to detect 
In the face of Matilda the grow'ing effect 
Of the words he had dropp'd. There 's no weapon 

that slays 
Its victim so surely (if well aim'il) as praise. 
Thus, a pause on their converse had fallen : and 

now 
Each was silent, preoccujjied, thoughtful. 

You know 
There are moments when silence, prolonged and 

unbroken, 
More expressive tnay be than all words ever 

spoken. 
It is when the heart has an instinct of what 
In the heart of another is passing. .•Xnd that 
In the heart of Matilda, what was it .^ Whence 

came 
To her cheek on a sudden that tremulous flame .' 
What weighed down her head ? 

All your eye could discover 
Was the fact that Matilda was troubled. Moreover 
That trouble the Duke's presence seem'd to renew. 
She, however, broke silence, the first of the two. 
The Duke was too prudent to shatter the spell 
Of a silence which suited his purpose so well. 
She was plucking the leaves from a pale blush rose 

blossom 
Which had fall'n from the nosegay she wore in her 

bosom. 



XXI. 

" Duke," she said. . . . and she felt, as she spoke, 

her cheek burn'd, 
"You know, then, this . . . lady?" 

" Too well !" he return 'd. 

Matilda. 
True ; you drew with emotion her portrait just now^ 

Luvois. 



With emotion ? 



Matilda. 



Yes, yes ! you described her, I know, 
As possess'd of a charm all unrivall'd. 

Luvois. 

Alas! 
You mistook me completely! You, madam, sur- 
pass 
This lady as moonlight does lamplight; as youth 
.Surpasses its best imitations ; as truth 
The fairest of falsehoods surpasses ; as nature 
Surpasses art's masterpiece; ay, as the creature 
Fresh and pure in its native adornment surpasses 
All the charms got by heart at the world's looking- 
glasses ! 
" Yet you said," — she continued with some trepida- 
tion, 
" That you quite comprehended " ... a slight hes- 
itation 



70 



LUCILE. 



Shook the sentence, ..." a passion so strong 
as" . . . 

Luvois. 

True, true ! 
But not in a man that had once look'd at you. 
Nor can I conceive, or excuse, or . . . 

" Hush, hush !" 
She broke in, all more fair for one innocent blush. 
" Between man and woman these things differ so ! 
It may be that the world pardons . . . ( how should 

I know .') 
In you what it visits on us ; or 't is true. 
It mav be, that we women are better than you." 

Luvois. 

Who denies it .■■ Yet, madam, once more you mis- 
take. 
The world, in its judgment, some difference may 

make 
'Twixt the man and the woman, so far as respects 
Its social enactments ; but not as affects 
The one sentiment which, it were easy to prove. 
Is the sole law we look to the moment we love. 

M.\TILDA. 

That may be. Yet I think I should be less severe. 
Although so inexperienced in such things, I fear 
I have learn'd that the heart cannot always repress 
Or account for the feelings which sway it. 

" Yes ! yes ! 
That is too true, indeed !" . . . the Duke sigh'd. 

And again 
For one moment in silence continued the twain. 



Young, lovely, and loving, no doubt, as you are, 
Are you loved .'" 

XXIII. 

He look'd at her — paused — felt if thus far 
The ground held yet. The ardor with which he 

had spoken. 
This close, rapid question, thus suddenly broken. 
Inspired in Matilda a vague sense of fear. 
As though some indefinite danger were near. 
With composure, however, at once she replied : — 
" 'T is three years since the day when I first was a 

bride. 
And my husband I never had cause to suspect ; 
Nor ever have stoop'd, sir, such cause to detect. 
Yet if in his looks or his acts I should see — 
See, or fancy — some moment's oblivion of me, 
I trust that I too should forget it, — for you 
Must have seen that my heart is my husband's." 

The hue 
On her cheek, with the effort wherewith to the Duke 
She had uttered this vague and half-frighten'd re- 
buke. 
Was white as the rose in her hand. The last word 
Seem'd to die on her lip, and could scarcely be 

heard. 
There was silence again. 

A great step had been made 
By the Duke in the words he that evening had said. 
There, half drown'd by the music, Matilda, that 

night. 
Had listen'd, — long listen'd — no doubt, in despite 
Of herself, to a voice she should never have heard, 
And her heart by that voice had been troubled and 

stirr'd. 
And so, having suffer'd in silence his eye 
To fathom her own, he resumed, with a sigh : 



At length the Duke slowly, as though he had needed 
All this time to repress his emotions, proceeded : 
" And yet ! . . . what avails, then, to woman the gift 
Of a beauty like yours, if it cannot uplift 
Her heart from the reach of one doubt, one despair. 
One pang of wrong'd love, to which women less fair 
Are exposed, when they love ?" 

With a quick change of tone. 
As though by resentment impell'd, he went on : — 
" The name that you bear, it is whisper'd. you took 
From love, not convention. Well, lady, . . . that 

look 
So excited, so keen, on the face you must know 
Throughout all its expressions, — that rapturous 

glow— 
Those eloquent features — significant eyes — 
Which that pale woman sees, yet betrays no sur- 
prise," 
(He pointed his hand, as he spoke, to the door. 
Fixing with it Lucile and Lord Alfred) ..." before. 
Have you ever once seen what just now )0U may 

view 
In that face so familiar ? . . . no, ladv, 't is new. 



XXIV. 

" Will you suffer me, lady, your thoughts to invade 
By disclosing my own ? The position," he said, 
" In which we so strangely seem placed may e.x- 

cuse 
The frankness and force of the words which I use. 
You say that your heart is your husband's : you say 
That you love him. You think so, of course, lady 

. . . nay. 
Such a love, I admit, were a merit, no doubt. 
But, trust me, no true love there can be without 
Its dread penalty — jealousy. 

" Well, do not start .' 
LIntil now — either thanks to a singular art 
Of supreme self-control, you have held them all 

down 
Unreveal'd in your heart, — or you never have 

known 
Even one of those fierce irresistible pangs 
Which deep passion engenders ; that anguish which 

hangs 
On the heart like a nightmare, by jealousy bred. 
But if, lady, the love you describe, in the bed 



LUCILE. 



n 



Of a blissful security thus hath reposed 

Undisturb'd with mild eyelids on happiness closed. 

Were it not to expose to a peril unjust, 

And most cruel, that hap|)y repose you so trust. 

To meet, to receive, and, indeed, it may be, 

For how long I know not, continue to see 

A woman whose place rivals yours in the life 

And the heart which not only your title of wife. 

But also (forgive me!) your beauty alone, 

Should have made wholly yours? — You, who gave 

all your own ! 
Reflect ! — 't is the piece of existence you stake 
On the turn of a die. And for whose — for his 

sake .' 
While you witness this woman, the false point of 

view 
From which she must now be regarded by you 
Will exaggerate to you, whatever they be. 
The charms I admit she possesses. To me 
They are trivial indeed ; yet to your eyes, I fear 
And foresee, they will true and intrinsic appear. 
Self-unconscious, and sweetly unable to guess 
How more lovely by far is the grace you possess. 
You will wrong your own beauty. The graces of 

art. 
You will take for the natural charm of the heart ; 
Studied manners, the brilliant and bold repartee. 
Will too soon in that fatal comparison be 
To your fancy more fair than the sweet timid sense 
Which, in shrinking, betrays its own best eloquence. 

then, lady, then, you will feel in your heart 
The poisonous pain of a fierce jealous dart ! 
While you see her, yourself you no longer will 

see, — 
You will hear her, and hear not yourself, — you will be 
Unhappy ; unhappy, because you will deem 
Your own power less great than her power will 

seem. 
And I shall not be by your side, day by day, 
In despite of your noble displeasure, to say 
' You are fairer than she, as the star is more fair 
Than the diamond, the brightest that beauty can 

wear !' " 

XXV. 

This appeal, both by looks and by language, in- 
creased 
The trouble Matilda felt grow in her breast. 
Still she spoke with what calmness she could — • 

" Sir, the while 

1 thank you," she said, with a faint scornful smile, 
" For your fervor in painting my fancied distress : 
Allow me the right some surprise to express 

At the zeal you betray in disclosing to me 

The possible depth of my own miser}-." 

" That zeal would not startle you, madam," he said, 

" Could you read in my heart, as myself 1 have read. 

The peculiar interest which causes that zeal — " 

Matilda her terror no more could conceal. 
" Duke," she answer'd in accents short, cold, and 
severe. 



As she rose from her seat, " I continue to hear ; 
But permit me to say, 1 no more understand." 
" Forgive !" with a nervous appeal of the hand. 
And a well-feign 'd confusion of voice and of look, 
" Forgive, oh. forgive me !" at once cried the Duke. 
" I forgot that you know me so slightly. Your leave 
I entreat (from your anger those words to retrieve) 
For one moment to speak of myself.^for I think 
That you wrong me — " 

His voice, as in pain, seem'd to sink ; 
And tears in his eyes, as he lifted them, glisten'd. 

XXVI. 
Matilda, despite of herself, sat and listen'd. 



" Beneath an exterior which seems, and may be. 
Worldly, frivolous, careless, my heart hides in me," 
He continued, " a sorrow which draws me to side 
With all things that suffer. Nay, laugh not," he 

cried, 
" At so strange an avowal. 

" I seek at a ball. 
For instance, — the beauty admired by all ? 
No ! some plain, insignificant creature, who sits 
Scorn'd of course by the beauties, and shunn'd by 

the wits. 
All the world is accustom'd to wound, or neglect. 
Or oppress, claims my heart and commands my 

respect. 
No Quixote, I do not affect to belong, 
I admit, to those charter'd redressers of wrong; 
But I seek to console, where I can. 'T is a part 
Not brilliant, I own, yet its joys bring no smart." 
These trite words, from the tone which he gave 

them, received 
An appearance of truth, which might well be be- 
lieved 
By a heart shrewder yet than Matilda's. 

And so 
He continued . . . " O lady ! alas, could you know 
What injustice and wrong in this world I have 

seen ! 
How many a woman, believed to have been 
Without a regret, 1 have known turn aside 
To burst into heartbroken tears undescribed ! 
On how manv a li|) have I witness'd the smile 
Which but hid what was breaking the poor heart 

the while !" 
Said Matilda, "Your life, it would seem, then, 

must be 
One long act of devotion." 

" Perhaps so," said he ; 
" But at least that devotion small merit can boast. 
For one day may yet come, — if one day at the 

most, — 
When, perceiving at last all the difference — how 

great ! — 
"I'wixt the heart that neglects, and the heart that 

can wait. 



72 



LUCILE. 



'Twixt the natures that pity, the natures that pain. 
Some woman, that else might have pass'd in disdain 
Or indifference by me, — in passing that day 
Might pause with a word or a smile to repay 
This devotion, — and then" . . . 

XXVIII. 

To Matilda's relief 
At that moment her husband approach'd. 

With some grief 
I must own that her welcome, perchance, was ex- 

press'd 
The more eagerly just for one twinge in her breast 
Of a conscience disturb'd, and her smile not less 

warm, 
Though she saw the Comtesse de Nevers on his 

arm. 
The Duke turn'd and adjusted his collar. 

Thought he 
•' Good ! the gods fight my battle to-night. I foresee 
That the family doctor 's the part I must play. 
Very well ! but the patients my tfisits shall pay." 
Lord Alfred presented Lucile to his wife ; 
And Matilda, repressing with effort the strife 
Of emotions which made her voice shake, murmur'd 

low. 
Some faint, troubled greeting. The Duke, with a bow 
Which betoken'd a distant defiance, replied 
To Lucile's startled cry, as surprised she descried 
Her former gay wooer. Anon, with the grace 
Of that kindness which seeks to win kindness, her 

place 
She assumed by Matilda, unconscious, perchance. 
Or resolved not to notice, the half-frighten'd glance 
That foUowVl that movement. 

The Duke to his feet 
Arose ; and, in silence, relinquish 'd his seat. 
One must own that the moment was awkward for 

all; 
But nevertheless, before long, the strange thrall 
Of Lucile's gracious tact was by every one felt, 
And from each the reserve seem'd, reluctant, to 

melt ; 
Thus, conversing together, the whole of the four 
Thro' the crowd saunter'd, smiling. 

XXIX. 

Approaching the door, 
Eugene de Luvois, who had fallen behind. 
By Lucile, after some hesitation, was join'd 
With a gesture of gentle and kindly appeal 
Which appear'd to imply, without words, " Let us 

feel 
That the friendship between us in years that are 

fled, 
Has survived one mad moment forgotten," she said, 
" You remain, Duke, at Ems ?" 

He turn'd on her a look 
Of frigid, resentful, and sullen rebuke ; 
And then, with a more than significant glance 
At Matilda, maliciously answer'd, " Perchance 



I have here an attraction. And you ?" he return'd. 
Lucile's eyes had follow'd his own, and discern'd 
The boast they implied. 

He repeated, " And you T' 
And, still watching Matilda, she answer'd, " 1 too." 
And he thought, as with that word she left him, 

she sigh'd. 
The next moment her place she resumed by the side 
Of Matilda ; and soon they shook hands at the gate 
Of the selfsame hotel. 

XXX. 

One depress'd. one elate. 
The Duke and Lord Alfred again, thro' the glooms 
Of the thick linden alley, return'd to the Rooms. 
His cigar each had lighted, a moment before. 
At the inn, as they turn'd, arm-in-arm, from the 

door. 
Ems cigars do not cheer a man's spirits, cxperio 
{Me im'serum guo/ies .') i/a/i- Robei'to. 
In silence, awhile, they walk'd onward. 

At last 
The Duke's thoughts to language half consciously 
pass'd. 

Luvdis. 

Once more ! yet once more ! 
Alfred. 



What } 



LUVlMS. 



We meet her, once more. 
The woman for whom we two madmen of yore 
(Laugh, nion clier Alfred, laugh !) were about to 

destroy 
Each other ! 

Alfred. 

It is not with laughter that I 
Raise the ghost of that once troubled time. Say I 

can you 
Recall it with coolness and quietude now } 

Luvois. 

Now ? yes ! I, mon cher. am a true Parisien : 
Now the red revolution, the tocsin, and then 
The dance and the play. I am now at the play. 

Alfred. 

At the play, are you now ? Then perchance I now 

may 
Presume, Duke, to ask you what, ever until 
Such a moment I waited . . . 

Luvois. 

Oh ! ask what you will. 
Fiane jcu! on the table my cards I spread out. 
Ask! 



LUCII.K. 



73 



Alfred. 

Uuke, you werecall'd to a meeting (no doubt 
You remember it yet) with Lucile. It was night 
When vou went ; and before )'ou return 'd it was 

light. 
We met : )'ou accosted me then with a lirow 
Bright with triumph : your words (you remember 

them now ?| 
Were " Let us be friends !" 



,f 



Luvois. 


W: 


Alfred. 



How then, after that 
Can you and she meet as acquaintances .' 

LUVOLS. 

What ! 

Did she not then, herself, the Comtesse de Nevers, 
Solve your riddle to-night with those soft lips of 
hers .•' 

Alfred. 

In our converse to-night we avoided the past. 
But the question 1 ask should be answer'd at last : 
By you, if you will ; if you will not, by her. 

Luvois. 

Indeed .■* but that question, milord, can it stir 
Such an interest in you, if your passion be o'er ? 

Alfred. 

Yes. Esteem mayremain, although love be no more. 
Lucile ask'd me, this night, to my wife (understand 
To my -wife !) to present her. I did so. Her hand 
Has clasp'd that of Matilda. We gentlemen owe 
Respect to the name that is ours : and, if so. 
To the woman that bears it a twofold respect. 
Answer, Due de Luvois ! Did Lucile then reject 
The proffer you made of your hand and your name? 
Or did you on her love then relinquish a claim 
LTrged before .' I ask bluntly this question, because 
My title to do so is clear by the laws 
That all gentlemen honor. Make only one sign 
That you know of Lucile de Nevers aught, in tine. 
For which, if your own virgin sister were bv. 
From Lucile you would shield her acquaintance, 

and I 
And Matilda leave Ems on the morrow. 

XXXL 

The Duke 
Hesitated and paused. He could tell, by the look 
Of the man at his side, that he meant what he said. 
And there flash'd in a moment these thoughts 

through his head : 
" Leave Ems! would that suit me.' no! that were 

again 
To mar all. And besides, if I do not explain. 




' Frigid and fair as von 
German moon." 



She herself will . . . ft puis, il a raison ; on est 
Gcntil/wDuiie avant tout .'" He replied therefore, 

•■ Nay ! 
Madame de Nevers had rejected me. I, 
In those days, I was mad ; and in some mad reply 
I threatened the life of the rival to whom 
That rejection was due, I was led to presume. 
She fear'd for his life ; and the letter which then 
She wrote me, I show'd you ; we met : and again 
My hand was refused, and my love was denied. 
And the glance you mistook was the vizard which 

Pride 
Lends to Humiliation. 

" And so," half in jest. 
He went on, " in this" best w orld, 't is all for the best ; 
You are wedded (bless'd Englishman!), wedded to 

one 
Whose past can be call'd into question by none : 
And I (fickle Frenchman !) can still laugh to feel 
I am lord of mvself, and the Mode : and Lucile 
Still shines from her pedestal, frigid and fair 
As von German moon o'er the linden-tops there ! 
A Dian in marble that scorns any troth 
With the little love-gods, whom I thank for us both. 
While she smiles from her lonely Olympus apart. 
That her arrows are marble as well as her heart. 
Stay at Ems, Alfred ^'argrave 1" 

xxxn. 

The Duke, with a smile, 
Turn'd and enter'd the Rooms which, thus talking, 

meanwhile. 
They had reach 'd. 

XXXIIL 

Alfred \'argra\e strode on (overthrown 
Heart and mind !) in the darkness bewilder'd, 
alone : 



74 



LUCILE. 



" And so," to himself did he mutter, " and so 
'T was to rescue my life, gentle spirit ! and, oh. 
For this did 1 doubt her .' . . . a light word — a 

look — 
The mistake of a moment ! . . . for this I for- 
sook — 
For this ? Pardon, ])ardon, Lucile ! O Lucile !" 
Thought and memory rang, like a funeral peal. 
Weary changes on one dirge-like note through his 

brain, 
As he stray 'd down the darkness. 

,. XXXIV. 

Re-entering again 
The Casino, the Duke smiled. He turn'd to roulette. 
And sat down, and play'd fast, and lost largely, and 

yet 
He still smiled : night deepen'd : lie play d his last 

number : 
Went home : and soon slept : and still smiled in his 

slumber. 

XXXV. 

In his desolate Maxims, La Rochefoucauld wrote, 
" In the grief or mischance of a friend you may 

note. 
There is something which always gives pleasure." 

Alas ! 
That reflection fell short of the truth as it was. 
La Rochefoucauld might have as truly set down — 
" No misfortune, but what some one turns to his 

own 
Advantage its mischief : no sorrow, but of it 
There ever is somebody ready to profit : 
No affliction without its stock-jobbers, who all 
Gamble, speculate, play on the rise and the fall 
Of another man's heart, and make traffic in it." 
Burn thy book, O La Rochefoucauld 1 

Fool ! one man's wit 
All men's selfishness how should it fathom .' 

O sage, 
Dost thou satirize Nature ? 

She laughs at thy page. 



CANTU U. 
I. 

Cou.siN John to Cousin Alfred. 

" London, i8 — 

" My dear Alfred, 

Your last letters put me in pain. 
This contempt of existence, this listless disdain 
Of your own life, — its joys and its duties, — the deuce 
Take my wits if they find for it half an excuse ! 
I wish that some Frenchman would shoot off your 

leg, 
And compel you to stump through the world on a 

peg- 



I wish that you had, like myself (more 's the pity !), 
To sit seven hours on this cursed committee. 
1 wish that you knew, sir, how salt is the bread 
Of another — (what is it that Dante has said ?) 
And the trouble of other men's stairs. In a word, 
I wish fate had some real affliction conferr'd 
On your whimsical self, that, at least, you had cause 
For neglecting life's duties, and damning its laws ! 
This pressure against all the purpose of life. 
This self-ebullition, and ferment, and strife, 
Betoken'd, 1 grant that it may be in truth. 
The richness and strength of the new wine of youth. 
But if, when the wine should have mellow'd with 

time. 
Being bottled and binn'd, to a flavor sublime 
It retains the same acrid, incongruous taste. 
Why, the sooner to throw it away that we haste 
The better, 1 take it. And this vice of snarling, 
Self-love's little lap-dog, the overfed darling 
Of a hypochondriacal fancy appears. 
To my thinking, at least, in a man of your years, 
At the midnoon of manhood with plenty to do. 
And every incentive for doing it too, — 
With the duties of life just sufficiently pressing 
For praver, and of joys more than most men for 

blessing ; 
With a pretty young wife, and a pretty full purse, — 
Like poltroonery, jiuerile truly, or worse ! 
I wish I could get you at least to agree 
To take life as it is, and consider with me. 
If it be not all smiles, that it is not all sneers ; 
It admits honest laughter, and needs honest tears. 
Do you think none have known but yourself all the 

pain 
Of hopes that retreat, and regrets that remain ? 
And all the wide distance fate fixes, no doubt, 
'Twixt the life that 's within, and the life that 's 

without ? 
What one of us finds the world just as he likes ? 
Or gets what he wants when he wants it ? Or 

strikes 
Without missing the thing that he strikes at the 

first .' 
Or walks without stumbling .' Or quenches his 

thirst 
At one draught ? Bah ! I tell you ! I, bachelor 

John, 
Have had griefs of my own. I!ut what then ? I 

push on 
All the faster perchance that I yet feel the pain 
Of my last fall, albeit I may stumble again. 
God means eveiy man to be happy, be sure. 
He sends us no sorrows that have not some cure. 
Our duty down here is to do, not to know. 
Live as though life were earnest, and life will be so. 
Let each moment, like Time's last ambassador, 

come : 
It will wait to deliver its message ; and some 
Sort of answer it merits. It is not the deed 
A man does, but the way that he does it, should 

plead 



LUCILE. 



75 



For the man's compensation in doing it. 

" Here, 
My next neighlior 's a man with twelve thousand a 

year. 
Who deems that Hfe has not a pastime more pleas- 
ant 
Than to follow a fox, or to slaughter a pheasant. 
Yet this fellow goes through a contested election. 
Lives in London, and sits, like the soul of dejec- 
tion. 
All the day through upon a committee, and late 
To. the last, every night, through thedreaiy debate. 
As though he were getting each s|)eal<er by heart. 
Though amongst them he never presumes to take 

part. 
One asks himself why, without murnmr or(|uestion. 
He foregoes all his tastes, and destroys his di- 
gestion. 
For a labor of which the result seems so small. 
' The man is ambitious,' you say. Not at all. 
He has just sense enough to be fully aware 
That he never can hope to be Premier, or share 
The renown of a TuUy ; — or even to hold 
A subordinate office. He is not so bold 
As to fancy the House for ten minutes would bear 
With patience his modest opinions to hear. 
' But he wants something ! ' 

" What ! with twelve thousand a year ? 
What could Government give him would be half so 

dear 
To his heart as a walk with a dog and a gun 
Through his own pheasant woods, or a capital 

run .' 
' No ; but vanity tills out the emjjtiest brain ; 
The man would be more than his neighbors, 't is 

plain ; 
And the drudgery drearily gone through in town 
Is more than repaiil by provincial renown. 
Enough if some Marchioness, lively and loose, 
Shall have eyed him with passing complaisance; 

the goose, 
If the Fashion to him open one of its doors, 
As proud as a sultan, returns to his boors.' 
Wrong again I if you think so. 

" For, priino ; my friend 
Is the head of a family known from one end 
Of his shire to the other, as the oldest ; and there- 
fore 
He despises fine lords and fine ladies. He care for 
A peerage } no truly ! Secondo ; he rarely 
Or never goes out : dines at Bellamy's sparely, 
And abhors what you call the gay world. 

" Then. 1 .isk. 
What inspires, and consoles, such a self-imposed 

task 
As the life of this man, — but the sense of its duty ? 
And I swear that the eyes of the haughtiest beauty 
Have never inspired in my soul th.it intense. 
Reverential, and loving, and absolute sense 
Of heart-felt admiration I feel for this man. 
As I see him beside me ; — there, wearing the wan 



r 






As 




J~^^ 



London day- 
light away, 
on his hum- 
drum com- 
mittee ; 

So uncon- 
scious of 
all that 
awakens my 

pity. 

And wonder — 

and worship, 

I might say. 

" To me 

There seems 

sonieth ing 

nobler than 

genius to be 
In that dull 

patient labor 

no genius 

relieves, 
That absence 

of all joy 

w h i c h yet 

never 

grieves ; 
The humility 

of it ! the 

grandeur 

withal ! 
The sublimity 

of it ! And 

yet, should 

you call 
The man's own very slow apprehension to this. 
He would ask, with' a stare, what sublimity is! 
His work is the duty to which he was born ; 
He accepts it, without ostentation or scorn : 
And this man is no uncommon type il thank 

Heaven !) 
Of this land's common men. In all other lands, 

even 
The type's self is wanting. Perchance, 't is the rea- 
son 
That Government oscillates ever 'twixt treason 
And tyranny elsewhere. 

" I wander away 
Too far. though, from what I was wishing to say. 
You, for instance, read Plato. You know that the 

soul 
Is immortal ; and put this in rhyme, on the whole. 
Very well, with sublime illustration. Man's heart 
Is a myster)-, doubtless. You trace it in art : — 
The (ireek Psyche,— that s beauty,— the perfect 

ideal. 
But then comes the imperfect, perfectible real. 
With its pain'd aspiration and strife. In those pale 
Ill-drawn virgins of Giotto you see it prevail. 
You have studied all this. 'Then, the universe, too, 
Is not a mere house to be lived in, for you. 




* With a i-rettv voung wife. 



76 



LUCILE. 



Geology' opens the mind. So you know 
Something also of strata and fossils ; these show 
The bases of cosmical structure : some mention 
Of the nebulous theory demands your attention ; 
And so on. 

" In short, it is clear the interior 
Of your brain, my dear Alfred, is vastly superior 
In fibre, and fulness, and function, and fire. 
To that of my poor parliamentar\- squire ; 
But your life leaves upon me (forgive me this heat 
Due to friendship) the sense of a thing incom- 
plete. 
You fly high. But what is it, in truth, you fly at ? 
My mind is not satisfied quite as to that. 
An old illustration 's as good as a new. 
Provided the old illustration be true. 
We are children. Mere kites are the fancies we fly. 
Though we marvel to see them ascending so high ; 
Things slight in themselves, — long-tail'd toys, and 

no more : 
What is it that makes the kite steadily soar 




*'HeR trustee ANn UNCLE, SlK RlDLEV MacNaB.^' 

Through the realms where the cloud and the whirl- 
wind have birth 

But the tie that attaches the kite to the earth ? 

I remember the lessons of childhood, vou see. 

And the hornbook I learn 'd on my poor mother's 
knee. 

In truth, I suspect little else do we learn 

From this great book of life, which so shrewdlv we 
turn. 

Saving how to apjily. with a good or bad grace. 

What we learn 'd in the hornbook of childhood. 

" Your case 

Is exactly in point. 

" F'ly your kite, if you please. 

Out of sight : let it go where it will, on the breeze ; 

But cut not the one thread by which it is bound, 

Be it never so high, to this poor human ground. 

No man is the absolute lord of his life. 

You, my friend, ha\e a home, and a sweet and dear 
wife. 

If I often have sigh'd by my own silent fire, 

With the sense of a sometimes recurring desire 



For a voice sweet and low, or a face fond and fair, 
Some dull winter evening to solace and share 
^\'ith the love which the world its good children 

allows 
To shake hands with, — in short, a legitimate spouse, 
This thought has consoled me : ' At least I have 

given 
For my own good behavior no hostage in heaven.' 
You have, though. Forget it not ! faith, if you do, 
I would rather break stones on the road than be you. 
If any man wilfully injured, or led 
That little girl wrong, I would sit on his head. 
Even though you yourself were the sinner ! 

■■ And this 
Leads me back (do not take it, dear cousin, amiss !) 
To the matter I meant to have mentioned at once. 
But these thoughts put it out of my head for the 

nonce. 
Of all the preposterous humbugs and shams 
Of all the old wolves ever taken for lambs. 
The wolf best received by the flock he devours 
Is that uncle-in-law, mv dear Alfred, of yours. 
At least, this has long been my settled conviction. 
And 1 almost would \enture at once the prediction 
That before ven,- long — but no matter ! I trust 
For his sake and our own, that I may be unjust. 
But Heaven forgive me, if cautious I am on 
The score of such men as. with both God and Mam- 
mon, 
Seem so shrewdly familiar. 

■' Neglect not this warning. 
There were rumors afloat in the City this morning 
Which I scarce like the sound of. Who knows ? 

would he fleece 
At a pinch, the old hypocrite, even his own niece? 
For the sake of Matilda I cannot importune 
Your attention too early. If all your wife's fortune 
Is yet in the hands of that specious old sinner. 
Who would dice with the devil, and vet rise up 

winner. 
1 say, lose no time I get it out of the grab 
Of her trustee and uncle. Sir Ridley MacNab. 
I trust those deposits, at least, are drawn out. 
And safe at this moment from danger or doubt. 
A wink is as good as a nod to the wise. 
]'er/)!iiit sap. I admit nothing yet justifies 
My mistrust ; but I have in my own mind a notion 
That old Ridley's white waistcoat, and airs of devo- 
tion. 
Have long been the only ostensible capital 
On which he does business. If so, time must sap 

it all. 
Sooner or later. Look sharp. Do not wait. 
Draw at once. In a fortnight it may be too late. 
I admit I know nothing. I can but suspect ; 
I give you my notions. Form yours and reflect. 
My love to ^latilda. Her mother looks well. 
I saw her last week. I have nothing to tell 
Worth your hearing. We think that the Govern- 
ment here 
Will not last our next session. Fitz Funk is a peer. 



" SAW LUCILE DE NEVERS BY HERSELF PACING SLOW, 
'NEATH THE SHADE OF THE COOL LINDEN-TREES TO AND 
FRO." 

Painted by Thomas Mcllvaine. 




i 



\ 



COPVCIIGMT (093 BV FREDERICK * STOKES COMPANY 



LUCILE. 



77 



You will see by the Times. There are symptoms 

which show 
That the ministers now are preparing to go, 
And finish llu-ir feast of the loaves and the fishes. 
It is evident th.it they are clearing thi- dishes, 
And cramming their pockets with bonbons. Your 

news 
Will be always acceptable. Vere, of the Blues, 
Has bolted with Lady Selina. And so, 
You have met with that hot-headed Frenchman ? I 

know 
That the man is a sad tnauvais sujet. Take care 
Of Matilda. I wish I could join you both there ; 
liut, before I am free, you are sure to be gone. 
Good-by, my dear fellow. Yours, anxiously, 

"JnHN." 

II. 

This is just the advice I myself would have given 
To Lord Alfred, had I been his cousin, wiiich. 

Heaven 
Be praised, I am not. But it reach'd him indeed 
In an unlucky hour, and received little heed. 
A half-languid glance w.is the most that he lent at 
That time to these homilies. PrinniDi dciiicniat 
(Juoii Dens viilt perdcrc. Alfred in fact 
Was behaving just then in a way to distract 
Job's self had Job known him. The more you 'd 

have thought 
The Duke's court to Matilda his eye woulil have 

caught. 
The more did his as[)ect grow listless to hers. 
And the more did it beam to Lucile de Nevers. 
And M.atilda, the less she found love in the look 
Of her husband, the less did she shrink from the 

Duke. 
With each day that pass'd o'er them, they each, 

heart from heart. 
Woke to feel themselves further and further apart. 
More and more of his time Alfred pass'd at the 

table ; 
Played high ; and lost more than to lose he was 

able. 
He grew feverish, querulous, absent, perverse, — 
And here I must mention, what made matters 

worse. 
That Lucile and the Duke at the selfsame hotel 
With the Vargraves resided. It needs not to tell 
That they all saw too much of each other. The 

weather 
Was so fine that it brought them each day all to- 
gether 
In the garden, to listen, of course, to the band. 
The house was a sort of jihalanster)' ; and 
Lucile and Matilda were pleased to discover 
A mutual passion for music. Moreover 
The Duke was an excellent tenor : could sing 
" Ange si pure" in a way to bring down on the 

wing 
All the angels St. Cicely play'd to. My lord 
Would also at times, when he was not too bored, 



I'lay Beethoven, and W.igner's new music, not 

ill; 

With some little things of his own, showing skill. 
For which reason, as well as for some others too, 
Their rooms were ;i pleasant enough rendezvous. 
Did Lucile, then, encourage (the heartless coquette !) 
All the mischief she could not but mark .' 

Patience yet ! 
in. 

In that garden, an arbor, withdrawn from the sun, 
Hy laburnum and lilac with blooms overrun, 
Form'd a vault of cool verdure, which made, when 

the heat 
Of the noontide hung heavy, a gracious retreat. 
And here, with some friends of their own little 

world. 
In the warm afternoons, till the shadows uncurl'd 
From the feet of the lindens, and crept through the 

grass, 
Their blue hours would this gay little colony pass. 
The men loved to smoke, and the women to bring, 
L'ndeterr'd by tobacco, their work there and sing 
Or converse, till the dew fell, and homeward the bee 
Floated, heavy with honey. Towards eve there 

was tea 
(A luxury due to Matilda), and ice, 
Fruit, and coffee, 'il 'Kbttfiif, vui'ra (piptir] 
.Such an evening it was, while Matilda presided 
O'er the rustic arrangements thus daily jirovided. 
With the Duke, and a small (lernian Prince with a 

thick head. 
And an old Russian Countess both witty ,ind 

wicked. 
And two Austrian Colonels, — that Alfred, who yet 
Was lounging alone with his last cigarette. 
Saw Lucile de Nevers by herself jiacing slow 
'Neath the shade of the cool linden-trees to and fro, 
And joining her, cried, " Thank the good stars, we 

meet ! 
I have so much to say to you !" 

" Yes ? . . ." with her sweet 
Serene voice, she replied to him ..." Yes? and I 

too 
Was wishing, indeed, to say something to you." 
She was paler just then than her wont was. The 

sound 
Of her voice had within it a sadness |)rofound. 
" You are ill .'" he exclaim'd. 

" No I" she hurriedly said, 
" No. no !" 

" You alarm me !" 

She droop'd down her head. 
■■ If your thoughts have of late sought, or cared, to 

divine 
The purpose of what has been passing in mine, 
My farewell can scarcely alarm you." 



Al.KRKD. 

Your farewell ! you go ! 



Lucile ! 



78 



LUCILE. 



Reveal 



LUCILE. 

Yes, l.onl Alfn 

Al.KKKIl. 

The cause of this sudden unkiiuhiess. 

LUCILE. 

Unkind? 
Alfrkd. 

Yes ! wliat else is this partini; ? 

LUCII.K. 

No. no ! ,ire you blind ? 
Look into your own heart and home. Can you see 
No reason for this, save unkindness in me? 
Look into the eyes of your wife — those true eyes 
Too pure and too honest in aught to disjfuise 
The sweet soul shinin;^ tlircni.:;!! them. 

Al.KUKU. 

I.ucile ! tlirst and last 
Be the word, if you will !) let me speak of the past. 
I know now. alas ! thou.nh 1 know it too late. 
What pass'd at that nieelint; whieh settled niv 

fale. 
Nay, nay. interru|)t me not yet ! let it be ! 
I but say what is due to yourself — due to me. 
And must say it. 

He rush'd incoherently on. 
Describinfj how. lately, the truth he had known. 
To explain how. and whence, lie h.id wmni^'d her 

before, 
.All the eomplieate coil wounil about him of yore. 
All the hopes that had llown with the faith that was 

tied, 
" And then, l> Liicile. what w.vs left me," he said. 
'• When niv life was tlefrauded of you. but to 

take 
That life, as 't was left, and endeavor to make 
Unoliserved by another, the void which remain'd 
Unconceal'd to myself? If I have not attain'd, 
I have striven. One word of unkindness has never 
l\iss'd mv lips to Matilda. Her least wish has 

e\er 
Received my submission. .\nd if, of a truth, 
I have fail'd to renew what 1 felt in my youth, 
I at least have been loyal to what 1 do feel. 
Respect, iluty, honor, affection, Lucile, 
I speak not of love now, nor love's long' regret : 
1 would not offend you, nor dare I forget 
The ties that are round me. But may there not be 
A friendship yet hallow'd between you and me ? 
Mav we not be vet friends — friends the dearest ?" 

•■ Alas !'■ 
She re|)lied, " for one moment, perchance, did it 

pass 
Through my own heart, tli.it dre.im which forever 

hath lirought 
To those who indulge it in iimocent thought 



.So fatal and evil a waking ! But no. 

For in lives such as ours are. the Uream-tree would 

grow 
On the borders of Hades ; beyond it. what lies? 
The wheel of Ixion. alas ! and the cries 
Of the lost and tormented. Departed, for us. 
Are the days when with innocence we could dis- 
cuss 
l)R-ams like these. Fled, indeed, are the dreams 

of my life ! 
Oh trust me, the best friend you h.ive is your wife. 
And 1 — in that jiure child's pure virtue. 1 bow 
To the beauty of virtue. I felt on my brow 
Not one blush when 1 first took her hand. With 

no blush 
Shall I clasp it to-night, when I leave you. 

" Hush ' hush ! 
1, would say wh.it 1 wish'd to have said when \iiu 

came. 
Do not think that years leave us and lind us the 

same ! 
The woman you knew long ago. long ago. 
Is no more. You vourself have within you. I 

know. 
The germ of a joy in the years yet to be. 
Whereby the i)ast years will bear fruit. As for me, 
I go my ow'ii way,— onward, upward ! 

•• O yet. 
Let me thank you for that which ennobled regret, 
When it came, as it beautified hope ere it Hed, — 
The love I once felt for you. True, it is dead. 
But it is not corrupted. I too have at last 
Lived to learn that love is not — (such love as is 

past. 
Such love as youth dreams of at least) — the sole 

|)art 
Of life, which is able to fill ii|i the heart ; 
Even that of a woman. 

" Between you and me 
Hea\ en fixes a gulf, over which you must see 
That our guardian angels can bear us no more. 
We each of us stand on an oijjiosite shore. 
Trust a woman's opinion for once. Women learn, 
By an instinct men never attain, to discern 
Fach other's true natures. Matilda is fair. 
Matilda is voung — see her now. sitting there ! — 
How tenderly fashion'd — (oh, is she not ? say,) 
To lo\'e and be loved !" 



He turn'd sharply away — 
'• Matilda is young, and Matilda is fair; 
Cii all that you tell me pray deem me aw.ire ; 
But Matilda 's a statue, ALatilda 's a child ; 
Matilda loves not — " 

Lucile quietly smiled 
.\s she answered him : — " Yesterday, all that you 

.say 
Might be true ; it is false, wholly false, though, 

to-day." 



LUCILE. 



79 



" How ? — what mean you ?" 

" 1 mean that to-day," she replied, 
" The statue with hfe has become vivitied : 
I mean that the child to a woman has grown : 
And that woman is jealous." 

" What ! she ?" with a tone 
Of ironical wonder, he answer'd — " what, she ! 
She jealous ! — Matilda ! — of whom, pray ? — not 

me !" 
"My lord, you deceive yourself; no one but you 
Is she jealous of. Trust me. And thank Heaven, 

too. 
That so lately this passion within her hath grown. 
For who shail declare, if for months she had known 
What for days she has known all too keenly, I 

fear, 
That knowledge perchance might have cost you 

more dear ?" 

" Explain ! explain, madam !" he cried in surprise ; 
And terror and anger enkindled his eyes. 

" How blind are you men I" she replied. " Can you 
doubt 

That a woman, young, fair, and neglected — " 

" Speak out !" 

He gasp'd with emotion. " Lucile ! you mean — 
what .' 

Do you doubt her fidelity?" 

" Certainly not. 

Listen to me, my friend. What 1 wish to explain 

Is so hard to shape forth. I could almost refrain 

From touching a subject so fragile. However, 

Bear with me awhile, if I frankly endeavor 

To invade for one moment your innermost life. 

Your honor, Lord Alfred, and that of your wife. 

Are dear to me, — most dear ! And I am con- 
vinced 

That vou rashly are risking that honor." 

He winced, 

And turn'd pale, as she spoke. 

She had aim'd at his heart. 

And she saw, by his sudden and terrified start. 

That her aim had not miss'd. 

"Stay, Lucile!" he exclaim'd. 

" What in truth do you mean by these words, 
vaguely framed 

To alarm me ? Matilda .' — my wife ? — do you 
know.'" — 

" I know that your wife is as spotless as snow. 
But I know not how far your continued neglect 
Her nature, as well as her heart, might affect. 
Till at last, by degrees, that serene atmosphere 
Of her unconscious purity, faint and yet clear. 
Like the indistinct golden and vaporous Heece 
Which surrounded and hid the celestials in 

Greece 
From the glances of men, would disperse and de- 
part 
At the sighs of a sick and delirious heart, — 



For jealousy is to a woman, be sure, 
A disease heal'd too oft by a criminal cure ; 
And the heart left too long to its ravage, in time 
May find weakness in virtue, reprisal in crime." 

•' Such thoughts could have never," he falter'd, " I 

know, 
Reach'd the heart of Matilda." 

■' Matilda ? oh no ! 
But reflect ! when such thoughts do not come of 

themselves 
To the heart of a woman neglected, like elves 
That seek lonely places, — there rarely is wanting 
Some voice at her side, with an evil enchanting 
To conjure them to her." 

" O lady, beware ! 
At this moment, around me I search everywhere 
For a clew to your words " — 

" You mistake them," she said, 
Half fearing, indeed, the effect they had made. 
■■ I w^as putting a mere hypothetical case." 

With a long look of trouble he gazed in her face. 
"Woe to him, . . ."he exclaim'd . . . "woe to 

him that shall feel 
Such a hope ! for 1 swear, if he did but reveal 
One glimpse, — it should be the last hope of his 

life !" 
The clench'd hand and bent eyebrow betoken'dthe 

strife 
She had roused in his heart. 

" You forget," she began, 
" That you menace yourself. You yourself are the 

man 
That is guilty. Alas ! must it ever be so ? 
Do we stand in our own light, wherever we go. 
And fight our own shadows forever ? O think ! 
The trial from which you, the stronger ones, 

shrink. 
You ask woman, the weaker one. still to endure ; 
You bid her be true to the laws you abjure ; 
To abide by the ties you yourselves rend asunder. 
With the force that has fail'd you ; and that too, 

when under 
The assumption of rights which to her you refuse. 
The immunity claim'd for yourselves you abuse ! 
Where the contract exists, it involves obligation 
To both husband and wife, in an equal relation. 
You unloose, in asserting your own liberty. 
A knot, which, unloosed, leaves another as free. 
Then. O Alfred ! be juster at heart ; and thank 

Heaven 
That Heaven to your wife such a nature has given 
That you have not wherewith to reproach her, 

albeit 
You have cause to reproach your own self, could 

you see it !" 

VI. 

In the silence which follow'd the last word she said. 
In the heave of his chest, and the droop of his 
head, 



8o 



LUCILE. 



Poor Lucile mark'd her words had sufficed to im- 
part 
A new germ of motion and life to that heart 
Of which he himself had so recently spoken 
As dead to emotion — exhausted, or broken ! 
New fears would awaken new hopes in his life. 
In the husband indifferent no more to the wife 
She already, as she had foreseen, could discover 
That Matilda had gain'd, at her hands, a new 

lover. 
So after some moments of silence, whose spell 
Thev both felt, she e.\tended her hand to him. . . . 



VII. 



VIII. 



■Well.'" 



" Lucile," he replied, as that soft quiet hand 
In his own he clasp'd warmlv. " I both under- 
stand 
And obey you." 

" Thank Heaven !" she murmur'd. 
•■ O yet, 
One word, I beseech you ! I cannot forget," 
He exclaim 'd, "we are parting for life. Vou have 

shown 
My pathway to me : but say, what is your own ?" 
The calmness with which until then she had 

spoken 
In a moment seem'd strangely and suddenly 

broken. 
She turn'd from him nervously, hurriedly. 

" Nay, 
I know not," she murmur'd, " I follow the way 
Heaven leads me ; I cannot foresee to what end. 
I know only that far, far away it must tend 
From all places in which we have met, or might 

meet. 
Far away ! — onward — upward !" 

A smile strange and sweet 
As the incense that rises from some sacred cup 
And mixes with music, stole forth, and breathed up 
Her whole face, with those words, 

" Wheresoever it be, 
May all gentlest angels attend you !" sigh'd he, 
" And bear my heart's blessing wherever you are !" 
And her hand, with emotion, he kiss'd. 

IX. 

From afar 
That kiss was, alas ! by Matilda beheld 
With far other emotions : her young bosom swell'd, 
And her young cheek with anger was crimson'd. 

The Duke 
Adroitly attracted towards it her look 
By a faint but significant smile. 

X. 

Much ill-construed, 
Renown 'd Bishop Berkeley has fully, for one, 
strew'd 



With arguments page upon page to teach folks 

That the world they inhabit is only a hoax. 

But it surely is hard, since we can't do without 

them. 
That our senses should make us so oft wish to 

doubt them ! 



CANTO III. 



When first the red savage call'd Man strode, a 

king. 
Through the wilds of creation — the very first thing 
That his naked intelligence taught him to feel 
Was the shame of himself ; and the wish to con- 
ceal 
Was the first step in art. From the apron which 

Eve 
In Eden sat down out of fig-leaves to weave. 
To the furbelovv'd flounce and the broad crinoline 
Of my lady . . . you all know of course whom I 

mean . . . 
This art of concealment has greatly increas'd. 
A whole world lies cryptic in each human breast ; 
And that drama of passions as old as the hills. 
Which the moral of all men in each man fulfils, 
Is only reveal'd now and then to our eyes 
In the newspaper-files and the courts of assize. 

II. 

In the group seen so lately in sunlight assembled, 
'Mid those walks over which the laburnum-bough 

trembled. 
And the deep-bosom'd lilac, emparadising 
The haunts where the blackbird and thrush flit and 

sing. 
The keenest eye could but have seen, and seen 

only, 
A circle of friends, minded not to leave lonely 
The bird on the bough, or the bee on the blossom ; 
Conversing at ease in the garden's green bosom. 
Like those who, when Florence was yet in her 

glories. 
Cheated death and kill'd time with Boccaccian 

stories. 
But at length the long twilight more deeply grew 

shaded, 
And the fair night the rosy horizon invaded, 
And the bee in the blossom, the bird on the bough. 
Through the shadowy garden were slumbering 

now. 
The trees only, o'er every unvisited walk. 
Began on a sudden to whisper and talk. 
And, as each little s|)rightly and garrulous leaf 
Woke up with an evident sense of relief. 
They all seem'd to be saying , . . " Once more 

we're alone. 
And, thank Heaven, those tiresome people are 

gone !" 



SHE ENTERED THAT ARBOR OF LILACS." 
Pjinted bv Tboiius Mcllvjinc. 



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COPYRIGHT ia93 BY FREOERJCK A.STOKeS COMPANV 



LUCILE. 



8i 



III. 

Through the deep blue concave of the luminous air, 
Large, loving, and languid, the stars here and there. 
Like the eyes of shy passionate women, look'd down 
O'er the dim world whose sole tender light was 

their own, 
When Matilda, alone, from her chamber descended, 
And enter'd the garden, unseen, unattended. 
Her forehead was aching and parch'd, and her 

breast 
By a vague ine.xpressible sadness oppress'd : 
A sadness which led her, she scarcely knew how. 
And she scarcely knew why . . . (save, indeed, that 

just now 
The house, out of which with a gasp she had tied 
Half-stitled, seem'd ready to sink on her head) . . . 
Out into the night air, the silence, the bright 
Boundless starlight, the cool isolation of night ! 
Her husband that day had look'd once in her face. 
And press'd both her hands in a silent embrace. 
And reproachfully noticed her recent dejection 
With a smile of kind wonder and tacit affection. 
He, of late so indifferent and listless ! ... at last 
Was he startled and awed by the change which 

had pass'd 
O'er the once radiant face of his young wife .' 

Whence came 
That long look of solicitous fondness.' . . . the 

same 
Look and language of quiet affection — the look 
And the language, alas ! which so often she took 
For pure love in the simple repose of its purity — 
Her own heart thus luU'd to a fatal security ! 
Ha ! would he deceive her again by this kind- 
ness ? 
Had she been, then, O fool ! in her innocent Ijlind- 

ness 
The sport of transparent illusion ? ah folly ! 
And that feeling, so tranquil, so happy, so holy, 
She had taken, till then, in the heart, not alone 
Of her husband, but also, indeed, in her own. 
For true love, nothing else, after all, did it prove 
But a friendship profanely familiar .' 

" And love .' . . . 
What was love, then .' . . . not calm, not secure — 

scarcely kind ! 
But in one, all intensest emotions combined : 
Life and death : pain and rapture." 

Thus wandering astrav. 
Led by doubt, through the darkness she wander'd 

away. 
All silently crossing, recrossing the night. 
With faint, meteoric, miraculous light. 
The swift-shooting stars through the infinite burn'd. 
And into the infinite ever return 'd. 
And silently o'er the obscure and unknown 
In the heart of Matilda there darted and shone 
Thoughts, enkindling like meteors the deeps, to 

expire. 
Leaving traces behind them of tremulous fire. 



She enter'd that arbor of lilacs, in which 
The dark air with odors hung heavy and rich. 
Like a soul that grows faint with desire. 

'T was the place 
In which she so lately had sat, face to face 
With her husband, — and her, the pale stranger 

detested. 
Whose presence her heart like a plague had infested. 
The whole spot with evil remembrance was haunted. 
Through the darkness there rose on the heart which, 

it daunted 
Each drear)- detail of that desolate day, 
So full, and yet so incomplete. Far away 
The acacias were muttering, like mischievous elves-. 
The whole story over again to themselves. 
Each word, — and each word w-as a wound ! By 

degrees 
Her memory mingled its voice with the trees. 



Like the whisper Eve heard, when she paused liy 

the root 
Of the sad tree of knowledge, and gazed on its 

fruit. 
To the heart of Matilda the trees seem'd to hiss 
Wild instructions, revealing man's last right, 

which is 
The right of reprisals. 

An image uncertain, 
And vague, dimly shaped itself forth on the curtain 
( )f the darkness around her. It came, and it went : 
Through her senses a faint sense of peril it sent : 
It pass'd and repass'd her ; it went and it came 
Forever returning ; forever the same ; 
.•\nd forever more clearly defined ; till her eyes 
In that outline obscure could at last recognize 
The man to whose image, the more and the more 
That her heart, now aroused from its calm sleep of 

yore. 
From her husband detach 'd itself slowly, with 

pain. 
Her thoughts had return 'd, and return 'd to, again. 
As though by some secret indefinite law, — 
The vigilant Frenchman— Eugene de Luvois ! 

VI. 

Alight sound behind her. She trembled. By some 
Night-witchcraft her vision a fact had become. 
On a sudden she felt, without turning to view-. 
That a man was approaching behind her. She 

knew 
My the fiuttering pulse which she could not restrain, 
.And the quick-beating he.u't, that this man was 

Eugene. 
Her first instinct was flight ; but she felt her slight 

foot 
As heavy as though to the soil it had root. 



82 



i.rcii.K. 



And iIk' Diiktf's voici- n-laiii'il licr. like fear in a 
(Irrani. 

"Ah, l.uly ! ill iifi- llu'ii- :irc mcclinjjs which seem 
Like a fate. Dare 1 tliiiik Mke a sympathy too? 
Yet what else can I bless for this vision of you ? 
Alone with my thoufjlits, on this starlifrhtecl lawn. 
By an instinct resistless, 1 felt myself drawn 
'fo revisit the memories left in the place 
Where so lately this cvenin)f 1 look'd in yiun- face. 
And I I'liul, - you, yourself — my own dream I 

" Can there be 
In lliis wiiild line lhcivn;lil ( iinimiin to you and to 

nu- ? 
U so, ... I, who deein'd lull a moment ai;o 
My heart uncompanion'd, s.ive only by woe. 
Should indeed be more bless'd than I dare to 1h- 

lieve^ 
— .'\h, but o/u- word, but one from your lips to 

receive" . . . 
Interrupting; him <|uickly, she nuirimn-'d, " 1 souj^ht, 
lUi'e, a monu'iil of solitude, silence, and thouj^'ht. 
Which 1 needed." . . . 

" Lives solitude only for one? 
Must its charm by iiiv iiresence so soon be undone ? 
Ah, cannot two share il ? Wliat needs it for 

this ?-~ 
'riu- s.ime thought in bolh liearts, — be il soiinw or 

bliss; 
If my heart be llu' rellex of yours, lady — you. 
Are you not yet alone. e\ en though w-e be two?" 

" Lor thai," . , . said Matilda, , . . " needs were, 

you should read 
What 1 have in my he.irl" . . . 

" Think vou, kuly, indeeil. 
\\n\ .ire yet of th;it a^je when a woman conceals 
In her heart so completelv whatever she feels 
From the he.irl of ihe ni.m whom it iiUirests to 

know 
And lind out what that feeling- may be ? Ah, not so. 
Lady Alfretl ! Forgive me that in it 1 look. 
But 1 read in your heart as 1 read in a book.'' 
'• Well, Duke f and what read you within it ? unless 
It be, of a truth, a profound weariness. 
And some sadness ?" 

"No doubt. To all facts there are laws. 
The effect has its cause, and I mount to the cause," 



Matilda shrank hack ; for she suddenly found 
That a linger was press'd on- the yet bleeding 

wound 
She, herself, had but lh.it d.iy iierceived in her 

breast. 

" You are sad," . . . said the Duke (and tliat lin- 
ger yet press'd 
With a cruel persistence the wound it made bleed) — 
" You are sad, Lady Alfred, because the first need 




"TlIK KnSK IN TMK HI.OOM." 



U 

m 



< )f .1 young .md a bc.iutiful woman 

is to be 
lieloved, and to love. You are sad : 

for you see V 

Th.it vou are not beloved, as you ^ 

deem'd that you were : 
You are sad: for lh.it knowKtlgi' h.ilh left you 

aware 
That you have not yet lo\rd. though you tlumght 

that you had. 
Yes, yes ! . . . you are sad — because knowledge is 

sad !" 

lie could not have read more profoundly her heart. 
" What gave you," she cried, with a terrified start, 
" Such strange power?" . . . 

" To read in your thoughts ?" he exclaim'd, 
" O lady, — a love, deep, profound — be it lilamed 
Or rejected, — a love, true, intense — such, at least, 
As you, and you only, could wake in my breast !" 

"Hush, hush! ... I In seech you . . . fur pity!" 

she gasp'd, 
Snatching hurriedly from him the hand he had 

clasp'd 
In her effort instinctive to fly from the spot. 
" For (lily ?" ... he echoed, "for pity I and what 
Is the pity vou ow-e him ? his pity for you ! 
lie. the lord of .i life, fresh as new-falien dew! 
The guardian and guide of a woman, young, fair, 
And matchless ! (whose happiness did he not swear 
To cherish through life ?) he neglects her— for 

whom ? 
For a fairer than she? No ! the rose in the bloom 
Of that beauty which, even when hidd'n, can prevail 
To keep sleepless with song, the aroused nightin- 
gale. 
Is not fairer; for even in the pure world of llowers 
I ler symbol is not, and this poor world of ours 
Has 110 second Matilda ! For whom ? Let that 

pass ! 
"T is not I, 't is not you, that can name her, alas ! 
And / dare not (piestion or judge her. But why, 
Why cherish the cause of your own misery ? 
Wliv think of one, lady, who thinks not of you ? 
NN'hv be bound by a chain which himself he breaks 
through ? 




* I.KAVE MR, LKAVE ME ! 



84 



LUCILE. 



And why, since you have but to stretch forth your 

hand, 
The love which you need and deserve to command. 
Why shrinl; ? Why repel it?" 

" O hush, sir ! O hush !" 
Cried Matilda, as though her whole heart were one 

blush. 
" Cease, cease, I conjure you, to trouble my life ! 
Is not Alfred your friend .' and am I not his wife.'" 



"And have I not, lady," he answer'd, . . ."re- 
spected 
His rights as a friend, till himself he neglected 
Your rights as a wife .' Do you think 't is alone 
For three days 1 have loved you ? My love may 

have grown, 
I admit, day by day, since I first felt your eyes. 
In watching their fears, and in sounding your sighs. 
Hut, O lady ! I loved you before I believed 
That your eyes ever wept, or your heart ever 

grieved. 
Then I deem'd you were happy — 1 deem'd you 

possess'd 
All the love you deserved, — and I hid in my breast 
My own love, till this hour — when 1 could not but 

feel 
Your grief gave me the right my own grief to re- 
veal ! 
I knew, years ago, of the singul.ir power 
Which Lucile o'er your husband ])ossess'd. Till 

the hour 
In which he reveal'd it himself, did I, — say ! — 
By a word, or a look, such a secret betray ? 
No ! no ! do me justice. I never have spoken 
Of this poor heart of mine, til! all ties he had 

broken 
Which bound row heart to him. .-\nd now — now, 

that his love 
For another hath left your own heart free to rove. 
What is it, — even now, — that 1 kneel to implore 

you .' 
Only this, I.ady Alfred ! ... to let me adore you 
Unblamed : to have confidence in me : to s|)end 
On me not one thought, save to think me your 

friend. 
Let me speak to you, — ah, let me speak to you 

still! 
Hush to silence my words in your heart, if. you will. 
I asl^ no response : 1 ask only your leave 
To live yet in your life, and to grieve when you 

grieve !" - " 



" Leave me, leave me !" . . . she gasp'd, with a 

\'oice thick and low 
From emotion. " For pity's sake, Duke, let me go ! 
I feel that to blame we should both of us be, 
Did I linger." 

" To blame ? yes, no doubt !" . . . answer'd he. 



" If the love of your husband, in bringing you 

]ieace. 
Had forbidden you hope. But he signs your re- 
lease 
By the hand of another. One moment ! but one ! 
Who knows when, alas ! I may see you alone 
As to-night I have seen you ? or when we may 

meet 
As to-night we have met } when, entranced at your 

feet, 
As in this blessed hour, I may ever avow 
The thoughts which are pining for utterance now ?" 
" Duke ! Duke !" . . . she exclaim'd ..." for 

Heaven's sake let me go I 
It is late. In the house they will miss me, I know. 
We must not be seen here together. The night 
Is advancing. I feel overwhelm'd with affright ! 
It is time to return to my lord." 

" To your lord ? " 
He repeated, with lingering reproach on the word, 
"To your lord? do you think he awaits you, in 

truth ? 
Is he anxiously missing your presence, forsooth ? 
Return to your lord ! . . . his restraint to renew ? 
And hinder the glances which are not for you ? 
No, no ! . . . at this moment his looks seek the 

face 
Of another ! another is there in your place ! 
Another consoles him ! another receives 
The soft speech which from silence your absence 

relieves !" 

XI. 

" You mistake, sir !" . . . responded a voice, calm, 

severe, 
And sad. ..." You mistake, sir I that other is here." 
Eugene and Matilda both started. 

" Lucile !" 
With a half-stifled scream, as she felt herself reel 
From the place where she stood, cried Matilda. 

" Ho, ho ! 
What! eaves-dropping, madam?" . . . the Duke 

cried ..." And so 
You were listening ?" 

" Say, rather," she said, " that I heard. 
Without wishing to hear it. that infamous word, — 
Heard — and therefore reply." 

" Belle Comtesse." said, the Duke, 
With concentrated wrath in the savage rebuke. 
Which betray 'd that he felt himself baffled . . . 

" you know 
That your ])lace is not licre." 

" Duke," she answer'd him slow, 
" My place is wherever my duty is clear; 
.•\nd therefore my place, at this moment, is here. 

lady, this morning my place was beside 

Your husband, because (as she said this she 
sigh'd) 

1 felt that from folly fast growing to crime — 

The crime of self-blindness — Heaven yet spared me 
time 



LUCILE. 



8S 



To save for the love of an innocent wife 

All that such love deserved in the heart and the life 

Of the man to whose heart and whose life you 

alone 
Can with safety confide the jnire trust of your own." 

She turn'd to Matilda, and lightly laid on her 
Her soft quiet hand . . . 

" 'T is, O lady, the honor 
Which that man Tias confided to you, that, in spite 
Of his friend, I now trust 1 may yet save to-night — 
Save for both of you, lady ! for yours I revere ; 
Due de Luvois, what say you .' — my place is not 
here }" 

XII. 

And, so saying, the hand of Matilda she caught. 
Wound one arm round her waist unresisted, and 

sought 
Gently, softly, to draw her away from the spot. 
The Duke stood confounded, and follow'd them not. 
But not yet the house had they re.ich'd when Lucile 
Her tender and delicate burden could feel 
.Sink and falter beside her. Oh, then she knelt 

down, 
Flung her arms round Matilda, and press'd to her 

own 
The poor bosom beating against her. 

The moon, 
liright, breathless, and buoyant, and brimful of 

June, 
Floated up from the hillside, sloped over the vale. 
And poised herself loose in mid-heaven, with one 

pale. 
Minute, scintillescent, and tremulous star 
Swinging under her globe like a wizard-lit car. 
Thus to each of those women revealing the face 
Of the other. Each bore on her features the trace 
Of a vivid emotion. A deep inward shame 
The cheek of Matilda had Hooded with fiame. 
With her enthusiastic emotion, Lucile 
Trembled visibly yet ; for she could not but feel 
That a heavenly hand was upon her that night. 
And it touch'd her pure brow to a heavenly light. 
" In the name of your husband, dear lady," she 

s.iid ; 
" In the name of your mother, take heart ! Lift 

your head. 
For those blushes are noble. Alas I do not trust 
To that maxim of virtue made ashes and dust. 
That the fault of the husband can cancel the 

wife's. 
Take heart ! and take refuge and strength in your 

life's 
Pure silence, — there, kneel, pray, and hope, weep, 

and wait !" 
" Saved, Lucile !" soljb'd Matilda, " but saved to 

what fate ? 
Tears, prayers, yes ! not hopes." 

" Hush !" the sweet voice replied. 
" Fool'd away by a fancy, again to your side 



Must your husband return. Doubt not this. And 

return 
For the love you can give, with the love that you 

yearn 
To receive, lady. What was it chill'd you both now? 
Not the absence of love, but the ignorance how 
Love is nourish'd by love. Well ! henceforth you 

will prove 
Your heart worthy of love, — since it knows how to 

love." 

XIII. 

" What gives you such power over me, that I feel 
Thus drawn to obey you ? What are you, Lucile ?" 
Sigh'd M.itilda, and lifted her eyes to the face 
Of Lucile. 

There pass'd suddenly through it the trace 
Of deep .sadness ; and o'er that fair forehead came 

down 
A shadow which yet was too sweet for a frown. 
" The pupil of sorrow, perchance" . . . she replied. 
" Of sorrow ?" Matilrla exclaim'd . . ." O confide 
To my heart your affliction. In all you made known 
I should find some instruction, no doubt, for my 

own !" 

" And I some consolation, no doubt ; for the tears 
Of another have not flow'd for me many years." 

It was then that Matilda herself seized the hand 
Of Lucile in her own, and uplifted her ; and 
Thus together they enter'd the house. 



'T was the room 
Of Matilda. 

The languid and delicate gloom 
Of a lamp of pure white alabaster, aloft 
From the ceiling suspended, around it slept soft. 
The casement oped into the garden. The pale 
Cool moonlight stream'd through it. One lone 

nightingale 
Sung aloof in the laurels. 

And here, side by side. 
Hand in h.ind, the two women sat down unde- 

scried. 
Save by guardian angels. 

As, when, sparkling yet 
From the rain, that, with dro])S that are jewels, 

leaves wet 
The bright head it humbles, a young rose inclines 
To some pale lily near it, the fair vision shines 
As one flower with two faces, in hush'd, tearful 

speech. 
Like the showery whispers of fiowers, e.ich to 

each 
Link'd, and leaning together, so loving, so fair, 
.So united, yet diverse, the two women there 
Look'd, indeed, like two flowers upon one drooping 

stem. 
In the soft light that tenderly rested on them. 



86 



LUCILE. 



All that soul said to soul in that chamber, who 

knows ? 
All that heart gain'd from heart' 

Leave the lily, the rose 
Undisturb'd with their secret within them. For 
who 

To the heart of 
the flow'ret 
can follow 
the dew .' 
A night full of 
stars ! O'er 
. . . , the silence, 

unseen. 




'Sparkling yet 

FROM THE 
KAIN." 



The foot- 

steps of 

I, sentinel 

f angels. 

between 

The dark land and deep sky were moving. You 

heard 
Pass'd from earth up to heaven the happy watch- 
word 
Which brighten'd the stars as amongst them it 

fell 
From earth's heart, which it eased ..." All is 
well ! all is well !" 



CANTO IV. 



The Poets pour wine ; and. when 't is new. all de- 
cry it, 
But, once let it be old, every trifler must try it. 
And Polonius, who praises no wine that 's not 

Massic, 
Complains of my verse, that my verse is not classic. 
And Miss Tilburina. who sings, and not badly, 
My earlier verses, sighs " Commonplace sadly!" 
As for you, O Polonius, you vex me but slightly, 
But you, Tilburina, your eyes beam so brightly 
In despite of their languishing looks, on my word. 



That to see you look cross I can scarcely afford. 
Yes ! the silliest woman that smiles on a bard 
Better far than Longinus himself can reward 
The appeal to her feelings of which she approves ; 
■•\nd the critics I most care to please are the 
Loves. 

Alas, friend ! what boots it, a stone at his head 
And a brass on his breast, — when a man is once 

dead ? 
Ay ! were fame the sole guerdon, poor guerdon 

were then 
Theirs who. stripping life bare, stand forth models 

for men. 
The reformer's ? — a creed by posterity learnt 
A century after its author is burnt ! 
The poet's ? — a laurel that hides the bald brow- 
It hath blighted ! The painter's .' — ask Raphael 

now 
\Vhich Madonna 's authentic ! The statesman's .' — 

a name 
For parties to blacken, or boys to declaim ! 
The soldier's .' — three lines on a cold Abbey pave- 
ment ! 
Were this all the life of the wise and the brave 

meant, 
All it ends in, thrice better, NejEra, it were 
L^nregarded to sport with thine odorous hair, 
Untroubled to lie at thy feet in the shade 
And be loved, while the roses yet bloom overhead. 
Than to sit by the lone hearth, and think the long 

thought, 
A severe, sad, blind schoolmaster, envied for 

nought 
Save the name of John Milton ! For all men. indeed, 
Who in some choice edition may graciously read. 
With fair illustration, and erudite note. 
The song which the poet in bitterness wrote. 
Beat the poet, and notably beat him. in this — 
The joy of the genius is theirs, whilst they miss 
The grief of the man : Tasso's song — not his mad- 
ness ! 
Dante's dreams — not his waking to exile and sad- 
ness ! 
Milton's music — but not Milton's blindness I . . . 

Yet rise, 
Mv Milton, and answer, with those noble eyes 
Which the glory of heaven hath blinded to earth ! 
Sav — the life, in the living it. savors of worth : 
That the deed, in the doing it. reaches its aim : 
That the fact has a value apart from the fame : 
That a deeper delight, in the mere labor, pays 
Scorn of lesser delights, and laborious days : 
And Shakespeare, though all Shakespeare's writings 

were lost. 
And his genius, though never a trace of it crossed 
Posterity's path, not the less would have dwelt 
In the isle with Miranda, with Hamlet have felt 
All that Hamlet hath utter'd. and haply where, pure 
On its death-bed, wrong'd Love lay, have moan'd 
with the Moor ! 



LUCILE. 



87 



When Lord Alfred that night to the salon return'd 
He found it deserted. The lamp dimly burn'd 
As though half out of humor to find itself there 
Forced to light for no purpose a room that was 

bare. 
He sat down by the window alone. Never yet 
Did the heavens a lovelier evening beget 
Since Latona's bright childbed that bore the new 

moon ! 
The dark world lay still, in a sort of sweet swoon, 
Wide open to heaven ; and the stars on the stream 
Were trembling like eyes that are loved on the 

dream 
Of a lover ; and all things were glad and at rest 
Save the unquiet heart in his own troubled breast. 
Heendeavor'd to think — an unwonted employment. 
Which appeared to afford him no sort of enjoyment. 



.\nd wistfully look'd down the dark corridor 
Toward the room of Matilda. Anon, with a sigh 
Of an incomplete purpose, he crept quietly 
Back again to his place in a sort of submission 
To doubt, and return'd to his former position — 
That loose fall of the arms, that dull droop of the 

face, 
And the eye vaguely fix'd on impalpable space. 
The dream, which till then had been lulling his life. 
As once Circe the winds, had seal'd thought ; and 

his wife 
And his home for a time he had quite, like Ulysses, 
Forgotten ; but now o'er the troubled abysses 
Of the spirit within him, aeolian, forth leapt 
To their freedom new-found, and resistlessly swept 
All his heart into tumult, the thoughts which had 

been 
Long pent up in their mystic recesses unseen. 




'Once let it bk old, everv ikiflek mvst trv it.'' 



"Withdraw into yourself. Rut. if peace you seek 

there for. 
Your reception, beforehand, be sure to prepare for," 
Wrote the tutor of Nero ; who wrote, be it said. 
Better far than he acted — but peace to the dead ! 
He bled for his pupil : what more could he do? 
But Lord .-Mfred, when into himself he withdrew. 
Found all there in disorder. For more than an hour 
He sat with his head droop'd like some stubborn 

flower 
Beaten down by the rush of the rain — with such 

force 
Did the thick, gushing thoughts hold upon him the 

course 
Of their sudden descent, rapid, rushing, and dim. 
From the cloud that had darken'd the evening for 

him. 
At one moment he rose— rose and open'd the door. 



How long he thus sat there, himself he knew not. 
Till he started, as though he was suddenly shot. 
To the sound of a voice too familiar to doubt. 
Which was making some noise in the passage with- 
out. 
.\ sound English voice, with a round English accent. 
Which the scared German echoes resentfully back 

sent ; 
The complaint of a much disappointed cab-driver 
Mingled with it, demanding some ultimate stiver; 
Then, the heavy and hurried approach of a boot 
Which reveal'd by its sound no diminutive foot : 
.\nd the door was flung suddenly open, and on 
The threshold Lord Alfred by bachelor John 
Was seized in that sort of affectionate rage or 
F"renzy of hugs which some stout Ursa Major 
On some lean Lrsa Minor would doubtless bestow 
With a warmth for which only stan-ation and snow 
Could render one grateful. As soon as he could. 
Lord Alfred contrived to escape, nor be food 
Any more for those somewhat voracious embraces. 
Then the two men sat down and scann'd each 

other's faces ; 
And Alfred could see that his cousin was taken 
With unwonted emotion. The hand that had 

shaken 
His own trembled somewhat. In truth he descried. 
At a glance, something wrong. 



" What 's the matter ?" he cried. 
'• What have you to tell me?" 

John. 

What ! have you not heard ? 

Alfred. 

JlJHX. 

This sad business — 



Heard what ? 



88 



LUCILE. 



Alfred. 

John. 
You leceivetl my last letter ? 

Al.KRKIl. 
What then ? 



I ? no. not a word. 



1 think .so. If not, 



Alfred. 
Surely can't mean we are ruin'd .' 



Hold I you 



John. 
You have acted upon it ? 

Alfred. 

On what ? 
John. 

The advice that I gave you — 

Alfred. 

Advice.' — let me see! 
You a/ways are giving advice. Jack, to me. 
About Parliament, was it .' 

||)I1N'. 

1 lang I'arli.iment ! no. 
The Bank, the Rank. Alfred ! 

Alfred. 

Wh.il l;.ink? 
John. 

Heavens ! I know 
You are careless; — but surely you h.ne not for- 
gotten. — 
Or neglected ... I w.irn'd you llu- whole thing 

was rotten. 
You have drawn those deposits at least } 

Alfred. 

No, 1 meant 
To have written to-day ; but llu- note shall be sent 
To-morrow, liowe\c-r. 

John. 

To-morrow .' too late ! 
Too late ! oh, wh.it devil bewiteh'd you to wait ? 

.\LFRED. 

Mercy save us ! you tlon't mean to .s.iy . , . 

John. 



Yes, I do. 



.'\LFRED. 

AVhat! Sir Kidlev? . . . 



John. 
Smasli'd. broken, blown up, bolted too. 

.■\lfred. 
liut his own niece ? . . . In Heaven's ii.une, Jack . . . 

John. 



John. 

Sit down .' 
\ fortnight ago a report about town 
Made me most apprehensive. Alas, and alas ! 
I at once wrote and warn'd you. Well, now let 

that pass. 
A run on the Bank about five days ago 
Confirm'd my forebodings too terribly, though. 
1 drove down to the City at once; found the door 
Of the Bank clos'd ; the Bank h.id stopp'd payment 

at four. 
Next morning the failure was known to be fraud ; 
Warrant out for MacNab ; but MacNab was abroad ; 
Gone — we cannot tell where. I endeavor'd to get 
Information ; have learn'd nothing certain as yet — 
Not even the way that old Ridley was gone ; 
Or with those securities what he had done ; 
(_)r whether they had been already call'd out ; 
If they are not. their fate is, I fear, past a doubt. 
Twenty families ruin'd, they say; what was left, — 
Unable to find any clew to the cleft 
The old fox ran to earth in, — but join you as fast 
As I could, mv dear .Alfred }* 



He stopp'd here, aghast 
At the change in his cousin, the hue of whose face 
Had grown livid ; and glassy his eyes fix'd on space. 
" Courage, courage !" . . . said John, ..." bear 

the blow like a man !" 
And he caught the cold hand of Lord Alfred. 

There ran 
Through that hand a (|uick tremor. " 1 bear it." he 

said, 
•' But Matilila ? the blow is to her !" And his head 
Seem'd forced down, as he said it. 

John. 

Matilda .' Pooh, pooh ! 
I half think I know the girl better than you. 
.She has courage enough — and to spare. She cares 

less 
Than most women for luxury, nonsense, and dress. 

.\LKRE15. 

The fault has been mine. 

John. 

Be it yours to rejiair it : 
If viiu did not avert, you may help her to bear it. 



The old hypocritical scoundrel woul( 



Oh, I told you 



* These events, it is needless 10 say, Mr. Morse, 
'i'ook place when Bad News as yet travell'd by horse ; 
Ere the world, like a cockchafer, biizz'd on a wire, 
Or Tinie was calcined by electrical fire ; 
Ere a cable went under the hoary Atlantic, 
Or the word Telegram drove grammarians frantic. 




' Appho-kched him.— stood o'er him.* 



90 



LUCII.E. 



Alfred. 
I might have averted. 

John. 

Perhaps so. But now 
There is clearly no use in considering how, 
Or whence, came the mischief. The mischief is 

here. 
Broken shins are not mended by cPiing — that 's 

clear ! 
One has but to rub them, and get up again. 
And push on — and not think too much of the pain. 
And at least it is much that you see that to her 
You owe too much to think of yourself. You nmst 

stir 
And arouse yourself. Alfred, for her sake. Who 

knows .•■ 
Something yet may be saved from this wreck. I 

suppose 



" O Jack, I have been a brute idiot ! a beast ! 
A fool ! I have sinn'd, and to her I have sinn'd ! 
I have been heedless, blind, inexcusably blind ! 
And now, in a Hash. I see all things !" 

As though 
To shut out the vision, he bow'd his head low 
On his hands ; and the great tears in silence roll'd 

on. 
And fell momently, heavily, one after one. 
John felt no desire to find instant relief 
For the trouble he witness'd. 

He guess'd, in the grief 
Of his cousin, the broken and heartfelt admission 
Of some error demanding a heartfelt contrition : 
Some oblivion perchance which could plead less 

e.vcuse 
To the heart of a man re-aroused to the use 
Of the conscience God gave him, than simply- and 

merely 
The neglect for which now he was paying so dearly. 
So he rose without speaking, and paced up and down 
The long room, much afflicted, indeed, in his own 
Cordial heart for Matilda. 

Thus, silently lost 
In his anxious reflections, he cross'd and recross'd 
The place where his cousin yet hopelessly hung 
O'er the table ; his fingers entwisted among 
The rich curls they were knotting and dragging : 

and there. 
That sound of all sounds the most painful to hear. 
The sobs of a man ! Yet so far in his own 
Kindly thoughts was he plunged,- he already had 

grown 
Unconscious of Alfred. 

And so for a space 
There was silence between them. 

vil. 

.\X last, with sad face 
He stopp'd short, and bent on his cousin awhile 



A pain'd sort of wistful, compassionate smile, 
Approach'd him, — stood o'er him, — and suddenly 

laid 
One hand on his shoulder — 

" Where is she .'" he said. 
Alfred lifted his face all disfigured with tears 
And gazed vacantly at him, like one that appears 
In some foreign language to hear himself greeted, 
Unable to answer. 

" \Vhere is she ?" repeated 
His cousin. 

He motion'd his hand to the door ; 
" There, I think," he replied. Cousin John said no 

more. 
And appear'd to relapse to his own cogitations. 
Of which not a gesture vouchsafed indications. 
So again there was silence. 

A timepiece at last 
Struck the twelve strokes of midnight. 

Roused by them, he cast 
A half-look to the dial ; then quietly threw 
His arm round the neck of his cousin, and drew 
The hands down from his face. 

" It is time she should know 
What has happen'd," he said, ..." let us go to her 

now." 
Alfred started at once to his feet. 

Drawn and wan 
Though his face, he look'd more than his wont was 

— a man. 
Strong for once, in his weakness. Uplifted, fiU'd 

through 
With a manly resolve. 

If that axiom be true 
Of the " Sum quia cogito," I must opine 
That " id sum quod cogito" .-—that which, in fine, 
A man thinks and feels, with his whole force of 

thought 
And feeling, the man is himself. 

He had fought 
With himself, and rose up from his self-overthrow 
The survivor of much which that strife had laid 

low. 
At his feet, as he rose at the name of his wife, 
Lay in ruins the brilliant unrealized life 
Which, though yet unfulfiU'd, seem'd till then, in 

that name. 
To be his, had he claim'd it. The man's dream of 

fame 
And of power fell shatter'd before him ; and only 
There rested the heart of the woman, so lonely 
In all save the love he could give her. The lord 
Of that heart he arose. Blush not, Muse, to record 
That his first thought, and last, at that moment 

was not 
Of the power and fame that seem'd lost to his lot. 
But the love that was left to it ; not of the pelf 
He had cared for, vet squander'd ; and not of him- 
self. 
But of her ; as he murmur'd, 

" One moment, dear Jack ! 



"AND NOT PURER SOME ANGEL GRIEF CARVES O'ER THE 

TOMB 
WHERE LOVE LIES, THAN THE LADY THAT KNEEL'D IN 

THAT GLOOM." 

Painted br Tboiius Mcilvji/ie. 



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COPVRIOHT ,693 BY FREDEBICK A STOKES COMPANY 



LUCILE. 



91 



We have grown up from boyhood together. Our 

track 
Has been through the same meadows in childhood : 

in youth 
Through the same silent gateways, to manhood. 

In truth, 
There is none that can know me as you do ; and 

none 
To whom I more wish to believe myself known. 
Speak the truth ; you are not wont to mince it, I 

know. 
Nor I, shall I shirk it, or shrink from it now. 
In despite of a wanton behavior, in spite 
Of vanity, folly, and pride. Jack, which might 
Have turn'd from me many a heart strong and true 

As your own, I 
have never 
turn'd round 
and m iss ' d 
YOU 
From my side 
in one hour of 
affliction or 
doubt 
B y m y o w n 
blind and 
heedless self- 
will brought 
about. 
Tell me truth. 
Do I owe this 
alone to the 
sake 
Of those old 
recollections 
o f boyhood 
that make 
In your heart 
yet some 
clinging and 
CPi'ing appeal 
From a judg- 
m e n t more 
harsh, which I cannot but feel 
Might have sentenced our friendship to death long 

ago? 
Or is it . . . (I would I could deem it were so !) 
That, not all overlaid by a listless e.xterior. 
Your heart has divined in me something superior 
To that which I seem ; from my innermost na- 
ture 
Not wholly expell'd by the world's usurpature ? 
Some instinct of earnestness, truth, or desire 
For truth ? Some one spark of the soul's native 

tire 
Moving under the ashes, and cinders, and dust 
Which life hath heap'd o'er it ? Some one fact to 

trust 
And to hope in ? Or by you alone am I deem'd 
The mere frivolous fool I so often have seem'd 
To my own self .'" 




' Struck the t\vel\e strokes of 
-midnight.'* 



JOHX. 

No, Alfred ! you will, I believe, 
Be true, at the last, to what now makes you grieve 
For having belied your true nature so long. 
Necessity is a stern teacher. Be strong ! 

" Doyou think," here.sumed . . ." what I feel while 

I speak 
Is no more than a transient emotion, as weak 
As these weak tears would seem to betoken it .'" 



JOHX. 
Alfred. 



No! 



Thank you, cousin ! your hand then. And now I 

will go 
Alone, Jack. Trast to me. 

VIII. 

John. 

I do. But 't is late. 
If she sleeps, you '11 not wake her? 

Alfred. 

No, no ! it will wait 
(Poor infant !) too surely, this mission of sorrow; 
If she sleeps, I will not mar her dreams of to- 
morrow. 
He open'd the door, and pass'd out. 

Cousin John 
Watch'd him wistful, and left him to seek her alone. 

IX. 

His heart beat so loud when he knock'd at her 

door. 
He could hear no reply from within. Yet once more 
He knock'd lightly. No answer. The handle he 

tried : 
The door open'd : he enter'd the room undescried. 

X. 

No brighter than is that dim circlet of light 
Which enhaloes the moon when rains form on the 

night. 
The pale lamp an indistinct radiance shed 
Round the chamber, in which at her pure snowy bed 
Matilda was kneeling ; so wrapt in deep prayer 
That she knew not her husband stood watching her 

there. 
With the lamplight the moonlight had mingled a 

faint 
And unearthly effulgence which seem'd to acquaint 
The whole place with a sense of deep peace made 

secure 
By the presence of something angelic and pure. 
And not purer some angel Grief car\es o'er the tomb 
Where Love lies, than the lady that kneel'd in that 

gloom. 



92 



LUCILE. 



She had put off her dress ; and she look'd to his eyes 
Like a young soul escaped from its earthly disguise ; 
Her fair neck and innocent shoulders were bare, 
And over them rippled her soft golden hair ; 
Her simple and slender white bodice unlaced 
Confined not one curve of her delicate waist. 
As the light that, from water reflected, forever 
Trembles up through the tremulous reeds of a river. 
So the beam of her beauty went trembling in him. 
Through the thoughts it suffused with a sense soft 

and dim. 
Reproducing itself in the broken and bright 
Lapse and pulse of a million emotions. 

That sight 
Bow'd his heart, bow'd his knee. Knowing scarce 

what he did, 
To her side through the chamber he silently slid. 
And knelt down beside her — and pray'd at her side. 

XI. 
Upstarting, she then for the first time descried 
That her husband was near her ; suffused with the 

blush 
Which came o'er her soft pallid cheek with a gush 
Where the tears sparkled yet. 

As a young fawn uncouches. 
Shy with fear, from the fern where some hunter ap- 
proaches. 
She shrank back ; he caught her, and circling his 

arm 
Round her waist, on hef brow press'd one kiss long 

and warm. 
Then her fear changed in impulse ; and hiding her 

face 
On his breast, she hung lock'd in a clinging embrace 
With her soft arms wound heavily round him, as 

though 
She fear'd, if their clasp were relax'd, he would go : 
Her smooth naked shoulders, uncared for. convulsed 
By sob after sob, while her bosom yet pulsed 
In its pressure on his, as the effort within it 
Lived anfl died with each tender tumultuous minute. 
" O Alfred, O Alfred ! forgive me," she cried — 
" Forgive me !" 

" Forgive you, my poor child !" he sigh'd ; 
" But I never have blamed you for aught that I 

know. 
And I have not one thought that reproaches you 

now." 
From her arms he unwound himself gently. And so 
He forced her down softly beside him. Below 
The canopy shading their couch, they sat down. 
And he said, clasping firmly her hand in his own, 
" When a proud man, Matilda, has found out at 

length, 
That he is but a child in the midst of his strength. 
But a fool in his wisdom, to whom can he own 
The weakness which thus to himself hath been 

shown ? 
From whom seek the strength which his need of 

is sore, 



Although in his pride he might perish, before 
He could plead for the one, or the other avow 
'Mid his intimate friends .^ Wife of mine, tell me 

now. 
Do you join me in feeling, in that darken'd hour. 
The sole friend that can have the right or the 

power 
To be at his side, is the woman that shares 
His fate, if he falter ; the woman that bears 
The name dear for he7- sake, and hallows the life 
She has mingled her own with, — rin short, that 

man's wife ?" 
" Yes," murmur'd Matilda, " O yes !" 

" Then," he cried, 
" This chamber in which we two sit, side by side 
(And his arm, as he spoke, seem'd more softly to 

press her). 
Is now a confessional — you, my confessor!" 
" I ?" she falter'd, and timidly lifted her head. 
" Yes ! but first answer one other question," he 

said : 
" When a woman once feels that she is not alone ; 
That the heart of another is warm'd by her own ; 
That another feels with her whatever she feel, 
.•\nd halves her existence in woe or in weal ; 
That a man for her sake will, so long as he lives, 
Live to put forth his strength which the thought of 

her gives_ ; 
Live to shield her from want, and to share with 

her sorrow ; 
Live to solace the day, and provide for the morrow ; 
Will that woman feel less than another, O say. 
The loss of what life, sparing this, takes away ? 
Will she feel (feeling this), when calamities come. 
That they brighten the heart, though they darken 

the home ?" 
She turn'd, like a soft rainy heaven, on him 
Eyes that smiled through fresh tears, trustful, ten- 
der, and dim. 
" That woman," she murmur'd, " indeed were thrice 

blest !" 
" Then courage, true wife of my heart I" to his 

breast 
As he folded and gather'd her closely, he cried. 
" For the refuge, to-night in these arms open'd 

wide 
To ^■our heart, can be never closed to it again. 
And this room is for both an asylum ! For when 
I pass'd through that door, at the door I left there 
A calamity, sudden, and heavy to bear. 
One step from that threshold, and daily, I fear, 
We must face it henceforth : but it enters not here, 
For that door shuts it out, and admits here alone 
A heart which calamity leaves all your own !" 
She started ..." Calamity, Alfred ! to you ?" 
'■ To both, my poor child, but 't will bring with it 

too 
The courage, I trust, to subdue it." 

■■ O speak ! 
Speak !" she falter'd in tones timid, anxious, and 

weak. 



LUCILE. 



93 



" O yet for a moment," he said, " hear me on ! 

Matilda, this morn we went forth in the sun, 

Like those children of sunshine, the bright summer 

flies, 
That sport in the sunbeam, and play through the 

skies 
While the skies smile, and heed not each other ; at 

last, 
When their sunbeam is gone, and their sky over- 
cast, 
Who recks in what ruin they fold their wet wings ? 
So indeed the morn found us, — poor frivolous 

things ! 
Now our sky is o'ercast, and our sunbeam is set. 
And thi night brings its darkness around us. Oh, 

yet, 
Have we weather'd no storm through those twelve 

cloudless hours ? 
Yes ; you, too, have wept ! 

" While the world was yet ours. 
While its sun was upon us, its incense stream'd 

to us. 
And its myriad voices of joy seem'd to woo us. 
We stray 'd from each other, too far, it may be. 
Nor, wantonly wandering, then did I see 
How deep was my need of thee, dearest, how great 
Was thy claim on my heart and thy share in my 

fate ! 
But, Matilda, an angel was near us, 'meanwhile. 
Watching o'er us, to warn, and to rescue ! 

" That smile 
Which you saw with suspicion, that presence you 

e)'ed 
With resentment, an angel's they were at your 

side 
And at mine ; nor perchance is the day all so far, 
When we both in our prayers, when most heartfelt 

they are, 
May murmur the name of that woman now gone 
From our sight evermore. 

" Here, this evening, alone, 
I seek your forgiveness, in opening my heart 
Unto yours, — from this clasp be it never to part ! 
Matilda, the fortune you brought me is gone, 
But a prize richer far than that fortune has won 
It is yours to confer, and I kneel for that prize, 
'T is the heart of my wife !" With suffused h.ippy 

eyes 
She sprang from her seat, flung her arms wide apart. 
And tenderly closing them round him, his heart 
Clasp'd in one close embrace to her bosom ; and 

there 
Droop'd her head on his shoulder ; and sobb'd. 

Not despair. 
Not sorrow, not even the sense of her loss. 
Flow'd in those happy tears, so oblivious she was 
Of all save the sense of her ow-n love ! Anon, 
However, his words rush'd back to her. " All gone. 
The fortune you brought me I" 

And eyes that were dim 
With soft tears she upraised : but those tears were 

for him. 




' While the skies 

SMILE." 



" Gone ! my husband ?" she said. " tell me all ! see ! 

I need. 
To sober this rapture, so selfish indeed. 
Fuller sense of affliction." 

" Poor innocent child I " 
He kiss'd her fair forehead, and mournfully smiled, 
As he told her the tale he had heard— something 

more 
The gain found in loss of what gain lost of yore. 
'• Rest, my heart, and my brain, and my right hand 

for you ; 
And with these, mv Matilda, what may I not 

do? 
You know not, I knew not myself till this hour, 
Which so sternly reveal'd it, my nature's full 

power." 
" And I too," she murmur'd, " I too am no more 
The mere infant at heart you have known me be- 
fore. 
I have suffer'd since then. I have learn'd much in 

life. 
O take, with the faith I have pledged as a wife, 
The heart I have learn'd as a woman to feel ! 
For I — love you. my husband !" 

As though to conceal 
Less from him, than herself, what that motion ex- 

press'd, 
She dropp'd her bright head, and hid all on his 

breast. 
" O lovely as woman, belovdd as wife ! 
Evening star of my heart, light forever my life ! 
If from eves fix'd loo long on this base earth thus 

faf 
You have miss'd your due homage, dear guardian 

star. 



94 



LUCILE. 



Believe that, uplifting those eyes unto heaven, 
There I see you, and know you, and bless the light 

given 
To lead me to life's late achievement ; my own. 
My blessing, my treasure, my all things in one !" 

XII. 

How lovely she look'd in the lovely moonlight. 
That stream'd thro' the pane from the blue balmy 

night ! 
How lovely she look'd in her own lovely youth. 
As she clung to his side full of trust, and of truth ! 
How lovely to him, as he tenderly press'd 
Her young head on his bosom, and sadly caress'd 
The glittering tresses which now shaken loose 
Shower'd gold in his hand, as he smooth'd them ! 



Continued about them, unheeded, unseen, 
Her old, quiet toil in the heart of the green 
Summer silence, preparing new buds for new blos- 
soms. 
And stealing a finger of change o'er the bosoms 
Of the unconscious woodlands; and Time, that 

halts not 
His forces, how lovely soever the spot 
Where their march lies — the wary, gray strategist 

Time, 
With the armies of Life, lay encamp'd — Grief and 

Crime, 
Love and Faith, in the darkness unheeded ; matur- 
ing. 
For his great war with man, new surprises ; securing 
All outlets, pursuing and pushing his foe 
To his last narrow refuge — the grave. 



O Muse, 
Interpose not one pulse of thine own beating heart 
'Twixt these two silent souls ! There 's a joy beyond 

art, 
And beyond sound the music it makes in the breast. 

XIV. 

Here were lovers twice wed, that were happy at 

least ! 
No music, save such as the nightingales sung, 
Breath'd their bridals abroad ; and no cresset, up- 
hung. 
Lit that festival hour, save what soft light was given 
From the pure stars that peopled the deep-purple 

heaven. 
He open'd the casement ; he led her with him, 
Hush'd in heart, to the terrace, dipp'd cool in the dim 
Lustrous gloom of the shadowy laurels. They 

heard 
Aloof the invisible, rapturous bird, 
W'ith her wild note bewildering the woodlands : 

they saw 
Not unheard, afar off, the hill-rivulet draw 
His long ripple of moon-kindled wavelets with 

cheer 
From the throat of the vale ; o'er the dark-sapphire 

sphere 
The mild, multitudinous lights lay asleep, 
Pastured free on the midnight, and bright as the 

sheep 
Of Apollo in pastoral Thrace ; from unknown 
Hollow glooms freshen'd odors around them were 

blown 
Intermittingly ; then the moon dropp'cl from their 

sight. 
Immersed in the mountains, and put out the light 
Which no longer they needed to read on the face 
Of each other's life's last revelation. 

The place 
Slept sumptuous round them ; and Nature, that 

never 
Sleeps, but waking reposes, with jxitient endeavor 



Sweetly though 
Smiled the stars like new hopes out of heaven, and 

sweetly 
Their hearts beat thanksgiving for all things, com- 
pletely 
Confiding in that yet untrodden existence 
Over which they were pausing. To-morrow, resist- 
ance 
And struggle ; to-night, Love his hallow'd device 
Hung forth, and proclaim'd his serene armistice. 



CANTO V. 



When Lucile left Matilda, she sat for long hours 
In her chamber, fatigued by long overwrought 

powers, 
'Mid the signs of departure, about to turn back 
To her old vacant life, on her old homeless track. 
She felt her heart falter within her. She sat 
Like some poor player, gazing dejectedly at 
The insignia of royalty worn for a night ; 
Exhausted, fatigued, with the dazzle and light, 
And the effort of passionate feigning ; who thinks 
Of her own meagre, rush-lighted garret, and shrinks 
From the chill of the change that awaits her. 

II. 

From these 
Oppressive, and comfortless, blank reveries, 
Unable to sleep, she descended the stair 
That led from her room to the garden. 

The air. 
With the chill of the dawn, yet unris'n, but at hand. 
Strangely smote on her feverish forehead. The 

land 
Lay in darkness and change, like a world in its 

grave : 
No sound, save the voice of the long river wave, 




¥ 



* He leu hek with him to the tbrr\ 



96 



LUCILE. 



Antl the crickets that shig all the night ! 

She stood still, 
Vaguely watching the thin cloud thatcurl'd on the 

hill. 
Emotions, long pent in her breast, were at stir. 
And the deeps of the spirit were troubled in her. 
Ah, pale woman ! what, with that heart-broken 

look. 
Didst thou read then in nature's weird heart-break- 
ing book .' 
Have the wild rains of heaven a father ? and who 
Hath in pity begotten the drops of the dew.' 
Orion, Arcturus. who pilots them both.' 
What leads forth in his season the bright Mazaroth .' 
Had the darkness a dwelling, — save there, in those 

eyes ,■■ 
And what name hath that half-reveal'd hope in the 

skies .' 
Ay, question, and listen ! What answer? 

The sound 
Of the long river wave through its stone-troubled 

bound. 
And the crickets that sing all the night. 

There are hours 
Which belong to unknown, supernatural powers. 
Whose sudden and solemn suggestions are all 
That to this race of worms, — stinging creatures, 

that crawl. 
Lie, and fear, and die daily, beneath their own 

stings, — 
Can excuse the blind boast of inherited wings. 
When the soul, on the impulse of anguish, hath 

pass'd 
Beyond anguish, and risen into rapture at last ; 
When she traverses nature and space, till she 

stands 
In the Chamber of Fate ; where, through tremulous 

hands. 
Hum the threads from an old-fashion'd distaff un- 

curl'd, . 
And those three blind old women sit spinning the 

world. 



The dark was blanch'd wan, overhead. One green 

star 
Was-slipping from sight in the pale void afar ; 
The spirits of change, and of awe, with faint breath. 
Were shifting the midnight, above and beneath. 
The spirits of awe and of change were around. 
And about, and upon her. 

A dull muffled sound. 
And a hand on her hand, like a ghostly surprise. 
And she felt herself fix'd by the hot hollow eyes 
Of the Frenchman before her : those eyes seem'd to 

burn. 
And scorch out the darkness between them, and turn 
Into fire as they fix'd her. He look'd like the shade 
Of a creature by fancy from solitude made. 
And sent forth by the darkness to scare and oppress 
Some soul of a monk in a waste wilderness. 



" At last, then — at last, and alone, — I and thou, 
Lucile de Nevers, have we met ? 

" Hush ! I know 
Not for me was the tryst. Never mind ! it is mine ; 
And whatever led hither those proud steps of thine. 
They remove not, until we have s])oken. My hour 
Is come; and it holds thee and me in its power. 
As the darkness holds both the horizons. "T is 

well ! 
The timidest maiden 

that e'er to the 

spell 
Of her first lover's 

\'o ws 1 i s t e n ' ( I . 

hush'd with de- 
light. 
When soft stars 

were brightly up- 

hangingtheniglii 
Never listen'd, I 

swear, more un 

questioningly. 
Than thy fate hath 

coni|ieird thee to 

listen to me !" 
To the sound of his 

voice, as though 

out of a dream. 
She appear'd with a 

start to awaken. 
The stream. 
When he ceased, 

took the niglit 

with its moaning 

again. 
Like the voices of 

spirits departing 

in pain. 
" Continue," she an- 

swer'd, " I listen 

to hear. " 
For a moment he 

did not reply. 

Through the drear 
And dim light between them, she saw that his face 
Was disturb'd. To and fro he continued to pace. 
With his arms folded close, and the low restless 

stride 
Of a panther, in circles around her. first wide. 
Then narrower, nearer, and quicker. At last 
He stood still, and one long look upon her he cast. 
■' Lucile, dost thou dare to look into my face.' 
Is the sight so repugnant ? ha, well ! Canst thou 

trace 
One word of thy writing in this wicked scroll. 
With thine own name scrawl'd through it, defacing 

a soul .'" 
In his face there was something so wrathful and 
wild. 




' One greem 

STAR." 



k ^'%»^ 



LUCILE. 



97 



That the sight of it scared her. 

He saw it, and sinilrd. 
And then turn'd him from her, renewing again 
That short restless stride ; as though searching in 

vain 
For the point of some purpose within liini. 

" Lucile, 
You shudder to hiok in my face : do you feel 
No reproach when you look in your own heart ?" 

" No, Uuke, 
In my conscience I do not deserve vour rebuke : 
Not yours !" she replied. 

" \o," he mutter'd again, 
" f.entle justice ! you first bid Life hope not, and 

then 
To Despair you say ' Act not ! ' " 




' Let the dead sler 



1- IN 1 E\CE. 



^- Whose hand sow'd the seed of destruction in me l 

He watch'd her awhile Whose lip taught the lesson of falsehood to mine ! 

With a chill sort of restless and suffering smile. Whose looks made me doubt lies that look'd so 
They stood by the wall of the garden. The skies, divine ! 

Dark, sombre, were troubled with vague prophecies l\Iv soul by thy beauty was slain in its sleep : 

Of the dawn yet far distant. The moon had long And if tears I mistrust, 't is that thou too canst 

set. weep ! 

And all in a glimmering light, pale, and wet Well ! . . . how utter soever it be, one mistake 

With the night-dews, the white roses sullenly In the love of a man, what more change need it 

loom'd make 

Round about her. She spoke not. At length he In the steps of his .soul through the course love 

resumed. began, 

" Wretched creatures we are ! I and thou— one and Than all other mistakes in the life of a man ? 



all! 
Only able to injure each other, and fall 
Soon or late, in that void which ourselves we prepare 
For the souls that we boast of ! weak insects we 

are ! 
O heaven ! and what has become of them ? all 
Those instincts of Eden surviving the Fall : 
That glorious faith in inherited things : 
That sense in the soul of the length of her wings ; 
Gone! all gone! and the wail of the night-wind 

sounds human. 
Bewailing those once nightly visitants ! Woman, 
Woman, what hast thou done with my youth ? All the wide loving-kindness of nature. The plains 

Give again. And the hills with each summer their verdure re- 

Give me back the young heart that I gave thee . . . new. 

in vain !" Wouldst thou be as they are ? do thou then as they 

" Duke !" she falter'd. do, 

" Yes, yes !" he went on, " I was not Let the dead sleep in ])eace. Would the living 
Always thus ! what I once was, I have not forgot." divine 

Where they slumber.^ Let only new flowers be 



And I said to myself, ' I am young yet : too young 
To have wholly survived my own portion among 
The great needs of man's life, or exhausted its 

joys ; 
What is broken ? one only of youth's pleasant toys ! 
Shall I be the less welcome, wherever I go. 
For one passion survived .' No ! the roses will blow- 
As of yore, as of yore will the nightingales sing. 
Not less sweetly for one blossom cancell'd from 

-Spring ! 
Hast thou loved, O my heart ? to thy love \et. 

remains 



VI. 

As the wind that heaps sand in a desert, there 

stirr'd 
Through his voice an emotion that swept every 

word 
Into one angry wail ; as, with feverish change, 
He continued his monologue, fitful and strange. 
" Woe to him, in whose nature, once kindled, the 

torch 
Of Passion burns downward to blacken aj^l scorch ! 
But shame, shame and sorrow, O woman, to thee 



the sign ! ' 

" Vain ! all vain ! . . . For when, laughing, the wine 

I would quaff, 
I remember'd too well all it cost me to laugh. 
Through the revel it was but the old song I heard. 
Through the crowd the old footsteps behind me 

they stirr'd. 
In the night-wind, the starlight, the murmurs of 

even, 
In the ardors of earth, ,uid the lan'fuors of heaven. 



98 



LUCILE. 



I could trace nothing more, nothing more through 

the spheres, 
But the sound of old sobs, and the tracks of old 

tears ! 
It was with me the nighl long in dreaming or 

waking, 
It abided in loathing, when daylight was breaking. 
The burthen of the bitterness in me ! Behold, 
All my days were become as a tale that is told. 
And I said to my sight, ' No good thing shalt thou 

see. 
For the noonday is turned to darkness in me. 
In the house of Oblivion my bed I have made.' 
And I said to the grave, ' Lo, my father ! ' and said 
To the worm, ' Lo, my sister ! ' The dust to the 

dust. 
And one end to the wicked shall be with the just !" 



He ceased, as a wind that wails out on the night. 
And moans itself mute. Through the indistinct 

light 
A voice clear, and tender, and pure with a tone 
Of ineffable pity replied to his own. 
" .^nd say you, and deem vou, that 1 wreck'd vour 

life? 
Alas ! Due de Luvois, had I been your wife 
By a fraud of the heart which could yield you alone 
For the love in your nature a lie in my own. 
Should I not, in deceiving, have injured you worse .' 
Yes, I then should have merited justly your curse. 
For I then should have wrong'd you !" 

" Wrong'd ! ah, is it so .•■ 
You could never have loved me ?" 

"Duke!" 

" Never ? oh no 1" 
(He broke into a fierce, angn' laugh, as he said) 
" Yet, lady, you knew that 1 loved you : you led 
My love on to lay to its heart, hour by hour. 
All the pale, cruel, beautiful, ]iassionless power 
Shut up in that cold face of yours ! was this well ? 
But enough ! not on you would I vent the wild hell 
Which has grown in my heart. Oh that man, first 

and last 
He tramples in triumph my life ! he has cast 
His shadow 'twixt me and the sun ... let it pass ! 
My hate yet may find him !" 

- She niurmur'd, " .^las ! 
These words, at least, spare me the pain of reply. 
Enough, Due de Luvois ! farewell. I shall try 
To forget every word I have heard, every sight 
That has grieved and appall'd me in this wretched 

night 
Which must witness our final farewell. May you. 

Duke, 
Never know greater cause your own heart to 

rebuke 
Than mine thus to wrong and afflict you have had ! 
Adieu !" 

'■ Stay, Lucile, stay !" . . . he groaned, ..." I 

am mad, 



Brutalized, blind with pain ! I know not what I said. 
I meant it not. But" (he moan'd, drooping his 

head) 
" Forgive me ! I — have I so wrong'd you, Lucile .' 
I . . . have I . . . forgive me, forgive me !" 

" I feel 
Only sad, very sad to the soul," she said, " far. 
Far too sad for resentment." 

" Yet stand as you are 
One moment," he murmur'd. " I think, could I 

gaze 
Thus awhile on your face, the old innocent days 
Would come back upon me, and this scorching 

heart 
Free itself in hot tears. Do not, do not depart 
Thus, Lucile ! stay one moment. I know why you 

shrink. 
Why you shudder ; I read in your face what you 

think. 
Do not speak to me of it. And yet, if you will. 
Whatever you say, my own lips shall be still. 
I lied. And the truth, now, could justify nought. 
There are battles, it may be, in which to have 

fought 
Is more shameful than, simply, to fail. Yet, Lucile, 
Had you help'd me to bear what you forced me to 

' feel—" 
" Could I help you," she murmur'd, " but what can 

I say 
That your life will respond to .'" "My life ?" he 

sigh'd. " Nay, 
My life hath brought forth only evil, and there 
The wild wind hath planted the wild weed : yet 

ere 
You' exclaim, ' Fling the weed to the flames,' think 

again 
Why the field is so barren. With all other men 
First love, though it perish from life, only goes 
Like the primrose that falls to make way for the 

rose. 
For a man, at least most men, m.av love on through 

life : 
Love in fame; love in knowledge; in work: earth 

is rife 
With labor, and therefore, with love, for a man. 
If one love fails, another succeeds, and the plan 
Of man's life includes love in all objects ! But I ? 
All such loves from my life through its whole des- 
tiny 
Fate excluded. The love that I gave you, alas 1 
Was the sole love that life gave to me. Let that 

pass ! 
It perish 'd, and all perish'd with it. Ambition? 
Wealth left nothing to add to my social condition. 
Fame ? But fame in itself presupposes some great 
Field wherein to pursue and attain it. The State? 
I, to cringe to an upstart? The Camp? I, to 

draw 
From its sheath the old sword of the Dukes of 

Luvois 
To defend usurpation ? Books, then? Science, Art? 



LUCILE. 



99 



But, alas ! I was fashion'd for action : my heart, 
Wither'd thing though it be, I should hardly com- 
press 
'Twixt the leaves of a treatise on Statics : life's stress 
Needs scope, not contraction ! what rests ? to wear 

out 
At some darl< northern court an existence, no doubt, 
In wretched and paltry intrigues for a cause 
As hopeless as is my own life ! By the laws 
Of a fate I can neither control nor dispute, 
1 am what I am !" 

VIII. 

For a while she was mute. 
Then she answer'd, " We are our own fates, i >ur 

own deeds 
Are our doomsmen. Man's life was made not for 

men's creeds. 
But men's actions. And, Due de Luvois. 1 might 



say 
That all life attests, that ' the will makes the way. ' 
Is the land of our birth less the land of our birth. 
Or its claim the less strong, or its cause the less 

worth 
Our upholding, because the white lily no more 
Is as sacred as all that it bloom'd for of yore? 
Yet be that as it may be ; I cannot perchance 
Judge this matter. I am but a woman, and France 
Has for me simpler duties. Large hope, though, 

Eugene 
De Luvois, should be yours. There is purpose i:i 

pain. 
Otherwise it were devilish. I trust in my soul 
That the great master hand which sweeps over the 

whole 
Of this dee]) harp of life, if at moments it stretch 
To shrill tension some one wailing nerve, means to 

fetch 
Its response the truest, most stringent, and smart. 
Its pathos the purest, from out the wrung heart. 
Whose faculties, flaccid it may be. if less 
Sharply strung, sharply smitten, had fail'd to express 
Just the one note the great final harmony needs. 
And what best proves there 's life in a heart ? — that 

it bleeds ! 
Grant a cause to remove, grant an end to attain. 
Grant both to be just, and what mercy in pain ! 
Cease the sin with the sorrow ! See morning begin ! 
Pain must burn itself out if not fuell'd by sin. 
There is hope in yon hill-tops, and love in yon light. 
Let hate and despondency die with the night !" 
He was nioN'ed by her words. As some poor wretch 

confined 
In cells loud with meaningless laughter, whose mind 
Wanders trackless amidst its own ruins, may hear 
A voice heard long since, silenced many a year, 
And now, 'mid mad ravings recaptured again. 
Singing through the caged lattice a once well-known 

strain, 
Which brings back his boyhood upon it. until 
The mind's ruin'd crevices graciously fill 



With music and memory, and, as it w'ere. 

The long-troubled spirit grows slowly aware 

Of the mockery round it. and shrinks from each thing 

It once sought,— the poor idiot who pass'd for a 

king, 
Hard by, with his squalid straw crown, now con- 

fess'd 
A madman more painfully mad than the rest,— _ 
So the sound of her voice, as it there wander'd o'er 
His echoing heart, seem'd in part to restore 
The forces of thought : he recaptured the whole 
Of his life by the light which, in passing, her soul 
Reflected on his : he appear'd to awake 
From a dream, and perceived he had dream'd a 

mistake : 
His spirit was soften'd, yet troubled in him : 
He fell his lips falter, his eyesight grow dim. 
But he niurmur'd . . . 

■' Lucile, not for me that sun's light 
Which reveals — not restores — the wild havoc of 

night. 
There are some creatures born for the night, not t'.ie 

day. 
Broken-hearted the nightingale hides in the spray. 
.A.nd the owl's moodv mind in his own hollow tower 
Dwells muffled. Be darkness henceforward my 

dower. 
Light, be sure, in that darkness there dwells, by 

which eves 
Grown familiar with ruins may yet recognize 
Enough desolation." 



" The pride that claims here 
On earth to itself (howsoever severe 
To itself it may be) God's dread office and right 
Of punishing s'in, is a sin in heaven's sight, 
.Vnd against heaven's service. 

■' Eugfene de Luvois, 
Leave the judgment to Him who alone knows the 

law. 
Surely no man can be his own judge, least of all 
His own doomsman." 

Her words seem'd to fall 
With the weight of tears in them. 

He look'd up, and saw 
That sad serene countenance, mournful as law 
And tender as pity, bow'd o'er him : and heard 
In some thicket the matinal chirp of a bird. 

X. 

■' Vulgar natures alone suffer v.iinly. 

" Eug&ne," 
She continued, " in life we have met once again. 
.\nd once more life parts us. Von day-spring for 

me 
Lifts the veil of a future in which it may be 
We shall meet nevermore. Grant, oh grant to me 

yet 
The belief that it is not in v.iin we have met . 



100 



LUCILE. 



I plead for the future. A new horoscope 

I would cast : will you read it ? 1 ph.-ad for a 

hope ; 
I plead for a memory ; yours, yours alone, 
To restore or to spare. Let the hope be your own, 
Be the memory mine. 

" Once of yore, when for man 
Faith yet lived, ere this age of the sluggard began, 
Men, aroused to the knowledge of evil, lied far 
From the fading rose-gardens of sense, to the war 
With the Pagan, the cave in the deseit, and sought 
Not repose, but employment in action or thought, 
Life's strong earnest, in all things ! oh think not of 

me, 
But yourself ! for I plead for your own destiny : 
I plead for your life, with its duties undone. 
With its claims unappeased, and its trophies un- 

won ; 




■*K.^ 



■■?■ 



,y' 



** A CLEAK, CHILLV CHIME KROM A CH UKCH-TL'RRET BROKE." 

And in ])]eading for life's fair fulfilment, I plead 
For all that you miss, and for all that you need." 

XI. 

Through the calm crystal air, faint and far, as she 

spoke, 
A clear, chilly chime from a church-turret broke ; 
And the sound of her voice, with the sound of the 

bell. 
On his ear, where he kneel'd, sc5ftlv, soothinclv 

fell. ' ^ 

All within him was wild and confused, as within 
A chamber deserted in some roadside inn. 
Where, passing, wild travellers paused, over-night. 
To quaff and carouse ; in each socket each light 
Is extinct ; crash'd the glasses, and scrawl'd is the 

wall 



With wild ribald ballads : serenely o'er all. 

For the first time perceived, where the dawn-light 

creeps faint 
Through the wrecks of that orgy, the face of a 

saint. 
Seen through some broken frame, appears noting 

meanwhile 
The ruin all round with a sorrowful smile. 
And he gazed round. The curtains of Darkness 

half drawn 
Oped behind her ; and pure as the pure light of 

dawn 
She stood, bathed in morning, and seem'd to his 

eyes 
From their sight to be melting away in the skies 
That expanded around her. 



XII. 

There pass'd through his head 
That woman was dead 
ago — loved and lost ! dead to 



A fancy — a vision. 
He had loved Ion: 

him. 

Dead to all the life left him ; but there, in the dim 
Dewy light of the dawn, stood a spirit ; 't was hers ; 
And he said to the soul of Lucile de Nevers : 
" O soul to its sources departing away ! 
Pray for mine, if one soul for another may pray. 
I to ask have no right, thou to give hast no power. 
One hope to my heart. But in this parting hour 
I name not my heart, and 1 speak not to thine. 
-Answer, soul of Lucile, to this dark soul of mine. 
Does not soul owe to soul, what to heart heart de- 
nies, . 
Mope, when hope is salvation? Behold, in yon 

skies. 
This wild night is passing away while I speak : 
Lo, above us, the day-spring beginning to break ! 
Something weakens within me, and warms to the 

beam. 
Is it hope that awakens ? or do I but dream ? 
I know not. It may be, perchance, the first spark 
Of a new light within me to solace the dark 
Unto which I return ; or perchance it may be 
The last spark of fires half extinguish'd in me. 
I know not. Thou goest thy way : I my own : 
For good or for evil, I know not. Alone 
This I know ; we are parting. I wish'd to say more, 
But no matter ! 't will pass. All between us is o'er. 
Forget the wild words of to-night. 'T was the pain 
For long years hoarded up, that rush'd from me 

again. 
1 was unjust : forgive me. Spare now to reprove 
Other words, other deeds. It was madness, not 

love. 
That you thwarted this night. What is done is now 

done. 
Death remains to avenge it, or life to atone. 
I was madden'd, delirious ! I saw you return 
To him — not to me ; and I felt my heart burn 
With a fierce thirst for vengeance — and thus . . . 

let it pass ! 



LUCILE. 



lOI 



Long thoughts these, and so brief the moments, 

alas ! 
Thou goest thy way, and I mine. I suppose 
'T is to meet nevermore. Is it not so.' Who 

knows. 
Or who heeds, where the exile from Paradise flies ? 
Or what altars of his in the desert may rise .' 



well ! Thus then we 



Is it not so, Lucile ? \Vt 

part 
Once again, soul from soul, as before heart from 

heart !" 

XIII. 

And again clearer far than the chime of the bell. 

That voice on his sense softly, soothingly fell. 

" Our two paths must part us, Eugene ; for my 

own 
Seems no more through that world in which hence- 
forth alone 
You must work out (as now I believe that you will) 
The hope which vou speak of. That work I shall 

still 
(If I live) watch and welcome, and bless far away. 
Doubt not this. But mistake not the thought, if I 

say. 
That the great moral combat between human life 
And each human soul must be single. The strife 
None can share, though by all its results may be 

known. 
When the soul arms for battle, she goes forth alone. 
I say not. indeed, we shall meet nevermore. 
For I know not. But meet, as we have met of 

yore, 
I know that we cannot. Perchance we may meet 
By the death-bed, the tomb, in the crowd, in the 

street. 
Or in solitude even, but never again 
Shall we meet from henceforth as we have met, 

Eug&ne. 
For we know not the way we are going, nor yet 
Where our two ways may meet, or mav cross. 

Life hath set 
No landmarks before us. But this, this alone. 
I will promise : whatever your path, or my own. 
If, for once in the conflict before you, it chance 
That the Dragon prevail, and with cleft shield, and 

lance 
Lost or shatter'd, borne down by the stress of the 

war. 
You falter and hesitate, if from afar 
I, still watching (unknown to yourself, it may be) 
O'er the conflict to which I conjure you, should see 
That my presence could rescue, support you. or 

guide, 
In the hour of that need I shall be at your side, 
To warn, if you will, or incite, or control : 
And again, once again, we shall meet, soul to 

soul !" 



All alone 
He stood on the bare edge of dawn. She was 

gone, 
Like a star, when up bay after bay of the night. 
Ripples in, wave on wave, the broad ocean of light. 
And at once, in her place, was the Sunrise ! It 

rose 
In its sumptuous splendor and solemn repose. 
The supreme revelation of light. Domes of gold. 



in the Orient ! And breathless, 



r 



XIV. 



The voice ceased. 



He uplifted his eyes. 



Realms of rose, 
and bold. 

While the 
great gates 
of heaven 
roll'd back 
one by one. 

The bright 
herald an- 
gel stood 
stern in the 
sun 1 

Thrice holy 
Eosph er- 
os ! Light's 
reign be- 
gan 

In the heav- 
en, on the 
earth, in 
the heart of 
the man. 

The dawn on 
the moun- 
tains I the 
d a w n 
every- 
where I 

Light ! si- 
lence I the 
fresh inno- 
vations of 
air ! 

O earth, and 
O ether ! 
A butterfly 
breeze 

Floated u p , 
flutter'd 
down, and 
poised 
blithe on 
the trees. 

Through the revelling woods, o'er the sharp-ri]ipled 
stream. 

L'p the vale slow uncoiling itself out of dream. 

Around the brown meadows, adown the hill-slope. 

The spirits of morning were whis[>ering, " Hope !" 

XV. 

He uplifted his eyes. In the place where she stood 
But a moment before, and where now roll'd the flood 




'O'er the SH.^Rp-RIPPLED sii>lam. 



I02 



LUCILE. 



Of the sunrise all golden, he seem'd to behold, 
In the young light of sunrise, an image unfold 
Of his own youth, — its ardors — its promise of fame — 
Its ancestral ambition ; and France by the name 
Of his sires seem'd to call him. There, hover'd in 

light. 
That image aloft, o'er the shapeless and bright 
And Aurorean clouds, which themselves seem'd 

to be 
Brilliant fragments of that golden world, wherein he 
Had once dwelt, a native ! 

There, rooted and bound 
To the earth, stood the man, gazing at it ! Around 




" Domes of emi*ikv." 

The rims of the sunrise it hover'd and shone 
Transcendent, that type of a youth that was gone ; 
And he — as the body may yearn for the soul. 
So he yearn'd to embody that image. His whole 
Heart arose to regain it. 

" And is it too late.-'" 
No ! for Time is a fiction, and limits not fate. 
Thought alone is eternal. Time thralls it in vain. 
For the thought that springs upward and yearns 

to regain 
The pure source of spirit, there /s no Too l.\TE. 
As the stream to its first mountain levels, elate 
In the fountain arises, the spirit in him 
Arose to that image. The image waned dim 
Into heaven; and heavenward with it, to melt 
As it melted, in day's broad e.x])ansion, he felt 
With a thrill, sweet and strange, and intense — awed, 

amazed — 
.'Something soar and ascend in his soul, as he gazed. 



CANTO VI. 



Man is born on a battle-field. Round him, to rend 
Or resist, the dread Powers he displaces attend. 
By the cradle which Nature, amidst the stern shocks 
That have shatter'd creation, and shapen it, rocks. 
He leaps with a wail into being ; and lo ! 
His own mother, tierce Nature herself, is his foe. 
Her whirlwinds are roused into wrath o'er his head : 
'Neath his feet roll her earthquakes : her solitudes 

spread 
To daunt him : her forces dispute his command : 



Her snows fall to freeze him : her suns burn to 

brand ; 
Her seas yawn to engulf him ; her nicks rise to 

crush : 
And the lion and leopard, allied, lurk to rush 
On their startled invader. 

In lone Malabar, 
Where the infinite forest spreads breathless and far, 
'Mid the cruel of eve and the stealthv of claw 
(Striped and spotted destroyers ll he sees, pale with 

awe. 
On the menacing edge of a fiery sky 
Grim Uoorga, blue-limb'd and red-handed, go by. 
And the first thing he worships is Terror. 

Anon, 
Still impell'd by necessity hungrily on. 
He conquers the realms of his own self-reliance. 
And the last cr)' of fear wakes the first of defiance. 
From the serpent he crushes its poisonous soul : 
Smitten down in his path see the dead lion roll ! 
On toward Heaven the son of Alcmena strides 

high on 
The heads of the Hydra, the spoils of the lion : 
And man, conquering Terror, is worshipp'd by man. 
A camp has this world been since first it btgan ! 
From his tents sweeps the roving Arabian ; at peace, 
A mere wandering shepherd that follows the fleece ; 
But, warring his way through a world's destinies, 
Lo from Delhi, from Bagdad, from Cordova, rise 
Domes of empir\-, dower'd with science and art, 
Schools, libraries, forums, the palace, the mart ! 

New realms to man's soul have been conquer'd. 

But those. 
Forthwith they are peopled for man by new foes ! 
The stars keep their secrets, the earth hides her 

own. 
And bold must the man be that braves the Vn- 

known ! 
Not a truth has to art or to science been given. 
But brows have ached for it, and souls toil'd and 

striven ; 
And many have striven, and many have fail'd. 
And many died, slain by the truth they assail'd. 
But when Man hath tamed Nature, asserted his 

place 
.•\nd dominion, behold ! he is brought face to face 
With a new foe — himself ! 



LUCILE. 



103 



Xor may man on his shield 
Ever rest, for his foe is forever afield. 
Danger ever at hand, till the armed Archangel 
Sound o'er him the trump of earth's final evangel. 



Silence straightway, stern Muse, the soft cymbals 

of pleasure, 
Be all bronzen these numbers, and martial the 

measure ! 
Breathe, sonorously breathe, o'er the spirit in me 
One strain, sad and stern, of that deep Epopee 
Which thou, from the fashionless cloud of far 

time, 
Chantest lonely, when Victory, pale, and sublime 
In the light of the aureole over her head. 
Hears, and heeds not the wountl in her heart fresh 

and red 
Blown wide by the blare of the clarion, unfold 
The shrill clanging curtains of war ! 

And behold 
A vision ! 

The anti(|ue Heraclean seats ; 



Whom the huntsmen have hemm'd round at last in 
his lair. 



A fang'd, arid plain, sapp'd with underground fire, 
Soak'd with snow, torn with shot, niash'd to one 

gory mire ! 
There Fate's iron scale hangs in horrid suspense, 
While those two famish'd ogres — the Siege, the 

Defence, 
Face to face, through a vapor frore, dismal, and dun, 
Glare, scenting the breath of each other. 

The one 
Double-bodied, two-headed — by separate ways 
Winding, serpent-wise, nearer; the other, each day's 
Sullen toil adding size to, — concentrated, solid. 
Indefatigable — the brass-fronted, embodied, 
And audible aiTof gone sombrely forth 
To the world from that Autocrat Will of the north I 



In the dawn of a moody October, a pale 
Ghostly motionless vapor began to prevail 



r'j;*^- 




"iiiE LONG Black Sea billow that once bore those fleets.' 



And the long Black Sea billow that once bore 

those fleets. 
Which said to the winds, " Be ye, too, Genoese !" 
And the red angr\- sands of the chafed Chersonese ; 
And the two foes of man. War and Winter, allied 
Round the Armies of England and France, side by 

side 
Enduring and dying (Gaul and Briton abreast I) 
Where the towers of the North fret the skies of the 

East, 



Since that sunrise, which rose through the calm lin- 
den stems 
O'er Lucile and Eugene in the garden at Ems, 
Through twenty-five seasons encircling the sun. 
This planet of ours on its pathway hath gone. 
And the fates that I 3ing of have flow'd with the fates 
Of a world, in the red wake of war, round the gates 
Of that doom'd and heroical city, in which 
(Fire crowning the rampart, blood bathing the 

ditch!) 
At bay, fights the Russian as some hunted bear. 



Over city and camp ; like the garment of death 
Which (is form'd byi the face it conceals. 

'T was the breath 
War, vet drowsily yawning, began to suspire ; 
Wherethrough, here and there, tlash'd an eye of red 

fire. 
And closed, froni some rampart beginning to bellow 
Hoarse challenge; replied to anon, through the 

\ellow 
And sulphurous twilight : till day reel'd and rock'd. 
And roar'd into dark. Then the midnight was 

mock'd 
With fierce apparitions. Ring'd round by a rain 
Of red fire, and of iron, the murtherous ]ilain 
Flared with fitful combustion : where fitfully fell 
Afar off the fatal, disgorged siliarpciielh-. 
And fired the horizon, and singed the coil'd gloom 
\\'ith wings of swift fiame round that City of Doom. 

VI. 

So the day — so the night ! So by night, so by day, 
\\'ith stern patient pathos, while time wears away. 



I04 



LUCILE. 



In the trench flooded through, in the wind where it 

wails, 
In the snow where it falls, in the fire where it hails 
Shot and shell — link by link, out of hardship and 

pain, 
Toil, sickness, endurance, is forged the bronze chain 
Of those terrible siege-lines ! 

Xo change to that toil 
Save the mine's sudden leap from the treacherous 

soil, 
Save the midnight attack, save the groans of the 

maim'd, 
And Death's daily obolus due. whether claini'd 
By man or by nature. 

VII. 

Time passes. 
The dumb, 
Bitter, snow-bound, 
and sullen No- 
vember is come. 
.■\nd its snows have 
been bathed in the 
blood of the 
brave : 
And many a young 
heart has glutted 
the graxe : 

A n d on 
Inker- 
nian yet 
the wild 
bramble 
is gory, 
\nd those 
bleak 
heights 
hence- 
forth 
shall be 
famous in story. 

vill. 

- — — 'j The moon, swathed 

in storm, has long 
set : through the 
ramp 




" Thk sentinel's slow 

SILLEN TKAl\ir.'" 



No sound save the sentinel's slow sullen tramp, 

The distant exidosion, the wild sleety wind. 

That seems searching for something it never can 

find. 
The midnight is turning : the lamp is nigh s|)ent : 
And, wounded and lone, in a desolate tent 
Lies a young British soldier whose sword . . . 

In this place. 
However, my Muse is compell'd to retr.ice 
Her precipitous steps and revert to the past. 
The shock which had suddenly shatter'd at last 
Alfred Vargrave's fantastical holidav nature. 
Had sharply drawn forth to his full size and stature 
The real man, conceal'd till that moment beneath 



All he yet had appear'd. From the gay broider'd 

sheath 
Which a man in his wrath flings aside, even so 
Leaps the keen trenchant steel summoneil forth 

b\- a blow. 
And thus loss of fortune gave value to life. 
The wife gain'd a husband, the husband a wife, 
In that home which, though humbled and narrow'd 

by fate. 
Was enlarged and ennobled by love. Low their 

state, 
But large their " possessions." 

Sir Ridley, forgiven 
By those he unwittingly brought nearer heaven 
By one fraudulent act, than through all his sleek 

speech 
The hypocrite brought his own soul, safe from 

reach 
Of the law, died abroad. 

Cousin John, heart and hand. 
Purse and i)erson, henceforth (^honest man !) took 

his stand 
By Matilda and .Alfred ; guest, guardian, and friend 
Of the home he both shared and assured, to the end, 
\\M\ his large lively love. Alfred A'argrave mean- 
while 
Faced the world's frown, consoled bv his wife's 

faithful smile. 
Late in life, he began life in earnest ; and still. 
With the tranquil exertion of resolute will, 
Through long, and laborious, and difficult davs, 
OLit of manifold failure, by wearisome ways, 
Work'd his way through the world ; till at last he 

began 
(Reconciled to the work which mankind claims 

from man). 
After years of unwitness'd, unwearied endeavor, 
'S'ears impassion'd, yet patient, to realize ever 
More clear on the broad stream of current opinion 
The reflex of powers in himself — that dominion 
Which the life of one man, if his life be a truth. 
May assert o'er the life of mankind. Thus, his 

youth 
In his manhood renew'd, fame and fortune he won 
Working only for home, love, and duty. 

One son 
Matilda had borne him ; but scarce had the boy. 
With all Eton yet fresh in his full heart's frank joy, 
The darling of young soldier comrades, just glanced 
Down the glad dawn of manhootl at life, when it 

chanced 
That a blight sharp and sudden was breath'd o'er 

the bloom 
Of his joyous and generous years, and the gloom 
Of a grief premature on their fair promise fell : 
No light cloud like those which, for June to dispel, 
Captious .April engenders ; but deep as his own 
Deep nature. Meanwhile, ere I fully make known 
The cause of this sorrow, I track the event. 
When first a wild war-note through Englantl was 

sent. 



LUCILE. 



105 



He transferrin!; without either tolcen or word. 
To'friend, parent, or comrade, a yet virgin sword, 
From a holiday troop, to one bound for the war. 
Had march'd forth, with eyes that saw death inlhe 

star - , . 1 r 11 

Whence others sought glor>-. Thus, tighting, he fe 1 
On the red field of Inkerman ; found, who can tell 
By what miracle, breathing, though shatter d, and 

borne , , , ,, , 

To the rear by his comrades, pierced, bleeding, and 

torn, . , , 1 

Where for long days and nights, with the wound 

in his side. 
He lay. dark. 

IX, 

But a wound deeper far, undcscried. 
In the young he.art was rankling ; for there, of a 

truth, , 

In the first earnest faith of a pure pensive yoiith, 
A love large as life, deep and changeless as death. 
Lay ensheath'd : and that love, ever fretting its 

The frail scabbard of life pierced and wore through 

and through. 
There are loves in man's life for which time can 

renew 
All that time may destroy. Lives there are, though, 

in love, 
Which cling to one faith, and die with it ; nor move. 
Though earthquakes may shatter the shrine. 

° ' Whence or how 

Love laid claim to this young life, it matters not 

now, 

X. 

Oh is it a phantom ? a dream of the night ? 
A vision which fever hath fashion'd to sight? 
The wind wailing ever, with motion uncertain, 
Sways sighingly there the drench'd tent's tatter'd 

curtain. 
To and fro, up and down. 

But it is not the wind 
That is lifting it now : and it is not the mind 
That hath moulded that vision. 

A pale woman enters. 
As wan as the lamp's waning light, which con- 
centres 
Its dull glare upon her. With eyes dim and dimmer 
There, all in a slumberous and shadowy glimmer. 
The sufferer sees that still form floating on. 
And feels faintly aware that he is not alone. 
She is flitting before him. She pauses. She stands 
By his bedside, all silent. She lays her white 

hands 
On the brow of the boy. A light finger is pressing 
Softly, softly the sore wounds : the hot blood- 

stain'd dressing 
Slips from them. A comforting tpiietude steals 
Through the rack'd wear>- frame ; and. throughout 
it, he feels 




" On the red field ()k Inkukman." 

The slow sense of a merciful, mild neighborhood. 
Something smooths the toss'd pillow. Beneath a 

gray hood 
( )f rough 'serge, two intense tender eyes are bent 

o'er him. 
And thrill through and through him. The sweet 

form before him. 
It is surely Death's angel Life's last vigd keeping! 
A soft voice says ..." Sleep !" ., . , . 

And he sleeps : he is sleeping. 

XI, 

He waked before dawn. Still the vision is there : 
Still that pale woman moves not. A minist ring 

Meanwhile has been silently changing and cheer- 
ing 
The aspect of all things around him. 

Revering 
Some power unknown and benignant, he bless'd 
In silence the sense of salvation. And rest 
Having loosen'd the mind's tangled meshes, he 

faintly , , . , , t 

Sigh'd ..." Say what thou art, blessed dream of 

a saintly 
And minist'ring spirit !" 

A whisper serene 
Slid, softer than silence . . . " The Soeur Seraphine, 
A poor Sister of Charity. Shun to inquire 
Auo-ht further, voung soldier. The son of thy sire, 
For" the sake of that sire, I reclaim from the 

grave. . . 

Thou didst not shun death : shun not life. 1 is 

more brave 
To live, than to die. Sleep !" , , . 

He sleeps : he is sleeping. 

Xll. 

He waken'd again, when the dawn was just steeping 



io6 



LUCILE. 




' Like some sunnv kount-i 



The skies with chill splendor. And there, never 

rlitting, 
Never flitting, that vision of mercy was sitting. 
As the dawn to the darkness, so life seem'd returning 
Slowly, feebly within hini. The night-lamp, yet 

burning. 
Made ghastly the glimmering da\'break. 

He said, 
" If thou be of the living, and not of the dead. 
Sweet minister, pour out yet further the healing 
Of that bahny voice ; if it may be, revealing 
Thy mission of mercy ! whence art thou .'" 

" <) son 
Of Matilda and .Alfred, it matters not ! One 
\Vho is not of the living nor yet of the dead : 
To thee, and to others, alive yet" . . . she said . . . 
" So long as there liveth the poor gift in me 
Of this ministration ; to them, and to thee. 
Dead in all things beside. .\ French Nun, whose 

vocation 
Is now by this bedside. A nun hath no nation. 
Wherever man suiters, or woman may soothe, 
There her land ! there her kindred !" 

She bent down to smooth 
The hot pillow ; and added ..." Yet more than 

another 
Is thy life dear to me. For thy father, thy mother, 
I knew them — I know them." 

'■ Oh call it be .-' you ! 
My dearest dear father ! my mother ! you knew. 
You know them ?" 

She bow'd, half averting, her head 
In silence. 

He brokenly, timidly said, 
" Do they know I am thus ?" 

" Hush !" . . . she smiled, as she drew 



From her bosom two letters : and — can it be true ? 

That beloved and familiar writing ! 

He burst 

Into tears ..." My poor mother — my father! the 
worst 

Will have reach'd them !" 

" No, no !" she exxlaim'd with a smile, 

" They know you are living ; they know that mean- 
while 

I am watching beside you. Young soldier, weep 
not !" ' 

But still on the nun's nursing bosom, the hot 

Fever'd brow of the buy weeping wildly is press'd. 

Thereat last, the young heart sobs itself into rest : 

And he hears, as i-t were between smiling and 
weeping. 

The calm voice say ..." Sleep !" 

And he sleeps : he is sleeping. 

XIII. 
And day foUow'd day. And, as wave follows wave. 
With the tide, day by dav, life, reissuing, drave 
Through that young hardv frame novel currents 

of health. 
Yet some strange obstruction, which life's self by 

stealth 
Seem'd to cherish impeded life's progress. And 

still 
A feebleness, less of the frame than the will. 
Clung about the sick man : hid and harbor'd within 
The sad hollow eyes : pinch'd the cheek pale and 

thin -. 
.\nd clothed the wan fingers with languor. 

.And there, 
Day by day, night by night, unremitting in care. 
Unwearied in watching, so cheerful of mien. 
And so gentle of hand, sat the Soeur Seraphine ! 

XIV. 

.-\ strange woman truly! not young; yet her face. 
Wan and worn as it was, bore about it the trace 
Of a beauty which time could not ruin. For the 

whole 
Quiet cheek, youth's lost bloom left transparent, 

the soul 
Seem'd to fill with its own Hght, like some sunny 

fountain 
Everlastingly fed from far off in the mountain 
That pours, in a garden deserted, its streams, 
.And all the more lovely for loneliness seems. 
So that, watching that face, you would scarce pause 

to guess 
The years which its calm careworn lines might ex- 
press. 
Feeling only what suffering with these nuist have 

past 
To have perfected there so much sweetness at last. 

XV. 

Thus, one bronzen evening, when day had put out 
His brief thriftv fires, and the wind was about. 
The nun, watchful still bv the boy, on his own 



LUCILK. 



107 



Laid a firm quiet hand, and tlie dee]) tender tone 
Of her voice moved the silence. 

Slie said ..." I have heal'd 
These wounds of the body. Wliy hast thou con- 

ceal'd. 
Young- soldier, that yet open wound in the heart ? 
Wilt thou trust no hand near it.'" 

He winced, with a start. 
As of one that is suddenlv touclied on the spot 
P'roni which every nerve derives suffering. 

" What } 
Lies my heart, then, so bare ?" he nioan'd bitterly. 

" Nay," 
With compassionate accents she hasten'd to say, 
" Do you think that these eyes are with sorrow, 

voung man. 
So all unfamiliar, indeed, as to scan 



Enough of its sorrow, enough of its trial, 

To grieve for both — save from both haply ! The 

dial 
Receives many shades, and each points to the sun. 
The shadows are many, the sunlight is one. 
Life's sorrows still fluctuate : tiod's love does not. 
And His lo\e is unchanged, when it changes our lot. 
Looking up to this li.ght, which is common to all, 
.And down to these shadows, on each side, that fall 
In time's silent circle, so various for each, 
Is it nothing to know that they never can reach 
■So far, but what light lies beyond them forever? 
Trust to me! Oh, if in this hour I endeavor 
To trace the shade creeping across the young life 
Which, in prayer till this hour, I have watch'd 

through its strife 
With the shadow of death, 't is with this faith alone. 




"The NUN, WATCHFUL STILL BV THE BOV. 



Her features, yet know them not ? 

" Oh, was it spoken, 
' Go ye forlh. Iical the sick, lift the lirw, bind the 

broken .' ' 
Of the body alone.' Is our mission, then, done, 
When we leave the bruised hearts, if we bind the 

bruised bone ? 
Nay, is not the mission of mercy twofold ? 
Whence twofold, perchance, are the powers, tliat 

we hold 
To fulfil it, of Heaven ! For Heaven doth still 
To us. Sisters, it may be, who seek it, send skill 
Won from long intercourse with affliction, and art 
Help'd of Heaven, to bind up the broken of heart. 
Trust to me !" (His two feeble hands in her own 
She drew gently.) " Trust to me !" (she said, with 

soft tone) : 
" I am not so dead in remembrance to all 
I have died to in this world, but what I recall 



That, in tracing the shade. I shall find out the sun. 
Trust to me!" 

She paused : he was weeping. Small need 
Of added appeal, or entreaty, indeed. 
Had those gentle accents to win from his pale 
And parch'd, trembling lips, as it rose, the brief tale 
Of a life's early sorrow. The story is old. 
And in words few as mav be shall straightw.iv be 

told. 

XVI, 

A few vears ago, ere the fair form of Peace 

Was driven from Europe, a young girl — the niece 

Of a French noble, leaving an old Norman pile 

ISy the wild northern .seas, came to dwell for a while 

With a ladv allied to her race — an old dame 

Of a threefold legitimate virtue, and name. 

In the Faubourg Saint Germain. 

I'pon that fair child. 



io8 



LUCILIi. 



From cliildliood, nor father nor mother had smiled. 
One imcle their place in her life had supplied, 
And their ])laee in lier heart : she had grown at his 

side. 
And under his rnof-tree, and in his regard. 
From ehildliMod to girlhood. 

This fair orphan ward 
Seem'd the sole human creature that li\ed in the 

heart 
Of that steri\ rigid man. or whose smile eould im- 

|.art 
One ray of resjionse to the eyes which, above 
Her fair infant forehead, look'd down witli a love 
That seem'd almost stern, so intense was its cliill 
Loftv stillness, like sunlight on some lonely hill 
Which is colder and stiller than sunlight elsewhere. 
Grass grew in the court-\ard ; the chambers were 

bare 
In that .ancient mansion ; when first the stern tread 
Of its owner awakenVl their echoes long dead : 
Bringing with him this infant tthe child of a 

brother). 
Whom, dying, the hands of a desolate mother 
Had jilaced on Ids bosom. 'T was said — right or 

wrong — 
That, in the lone mansion, left tenantless long. 
To which, as a stranger, its lord now return'd, 
In years yet recall'd, through loud midnights had 

burnVl 
The light of wiUl orgies. Be that false or true. 
Slow aiul sad was the footstep which now wanderVl 

through 
Those desolate chambers ; and calm and severe 
Was the life of their inmate. 

Men now saw appear 
Kverv morn at the mass that tirni sorrowful face. 
Which seem'd to lock up in a cold iron case 
Tears harden'd to crystal. Vet harsh if he were. 
His severitv seem'd to be trebly severe 
In the rule of his own rigid life, which, at least. 
Was benignant to others. The poor parish priest, 
Who lived on liis largess, his piety praised. 
The peasant W'as fed, and the chapel was raised. 
And the cottage was built, by his liberal hand. 
Yet he seem'd in the midst of his good deeds to 

stand 
A lone, and unloved, and unlovable man. 
There appear'd some inscrutable flaw in the plan 
Of his life, that love fail'd to pass o\-er. 

That child 
Alone ilid not fear him. nor shrink from him ; 

smiled 
To his frown, and dispell'd it. 

The sweet sportive elf 
Seem'd the tvpe of some joy lost, and miss'd. in 

himself. 
Ever welcome he sutTer'd her glad face to glide 
In on hours when to others his door was denied : 
And manv a time with a mute moody look 
He wouM watch her at prattle and play, like a 

brook 



Whose babble disturlis not the quietest spot. 
But soothes us because we need answer it not. 

But few years had pass'd o'er that childhood before 
A change came among them. A letter, which bore 
Sutlden consecpience with it, one morning was 

placed 
In the hands of the lord of the chAteau. He paced 
To and fro in his chamber a whole night alone 
After reading that letter. At dawn he was gone. 
Weeks pass'd. When he came back again he re- 
turn'd 
With a tall ancient d.ime. from whose lips the child 

learn'd 
That they were of the same race and n.ime, \\"ith 

a face 
,Sad and anxious, to this wither'd stock of the race 
He confided the orphan, and left them alone 
In the old lonely house. 

In a few days l was known, 
To the angry surprise of half Paris, that one 
Of the chiefs of that party which, still clinging on 
To the banner that bears the white lilies of France, 
Will fight 'neath no other, nor yet for the chance 
Of restoring their own, had renounced the watch- 
word 
.\nd the creed of his youth in unsheathing his 

sword 
For a Fatherland father'd no more (such is fate !) 
By legitimate parents. 

.\nd meanwhile, elate 
And in no wise distiubed by what Paris might 

say. 
The new soldier thus wrote to a friend far away : — 
" To the life of inaction farewell ! After all. 
Creeds the oldest may crumble, and dynasties fall. 
But the sole grand Legitimacy will endure. 
In whatever makes death noble, life strong and pure. 
Freedom ! action ! . . . the desert to breathe in — 

the lance 
Of the Arab to follow ! 1 go I I'/<y la F>a)n<- .'" 
Few and rare were the meetings henceforth, as 

years fied, 
'Twixt the child anil the soldier. The two women 

led 
Lone lives in the lone house. Meanwhile the child 

grew 
Into girlhood ; and. like a sunbeam, sliding through 
Her green quiet years, changed by gentle degrees 
To the loveliest vision of youth a youth sees 
In his loveliest fancies: as pure as a pearl. 
And as fierfect : a noble and innocent girl. 
With eighteen sweet summers dissolvetl in the light 
t">f her lovelv and lovable eyes, soft and bright ! 
Then her guanlian wrote to the dame, ..." Let 

Constance 
CiO with vou to Paris. I trust that in France 
1 may be ere the close of the year. I confide 
3\Iy life's treasure to you. Let her see, at your side. 
The world which we live in." 

To Paris then came 



"AS PURE AS A PEARL, 
AND AS PERFECT: A NOBLE AND INNOCENT GIRL" 

Pdinttd bv Tbonijs \hih\iiiie. 







ns" 






*^i 







;S«^ ^ 






/: 






COPYRIGHT 1893 BY FREDERICK A.STOKES COMPANY 



LUCILE. 



109 



Constance to abide with that old stately dame 
In that old stalely Faubour>^. 

'rhe young Englishman 
Thus met her. 'T was there their acquaintance 

began, 
There it closed. That old miracle — Love-at-lirst- 

sight— 
Needs no explanations. The heart reads aright 
Its destiny sometimes. His love neither chidden 
Nor check'd. the young soldier was graciously bid- 
den 
An habitual guest to the house by the dame. 
His own candid graces, the world-honor'd name 
Of his father (in him not dishonor'd) were both 
Fair titles to favor. His love, nothing loath, 
The old lady observed, was return 'd by Constance. 
And as the child's uncle his absence from France 
Yet prolong'd, she (thus easing long self-gratula- 

tion) 
Wrote to him a lengthen'd and movmg narration 
Of the graces and gifts of the young English wooer : 
His father's fair fame ; the boy's deference to her ; 
His love for Constance, — unaffected, sincere; 
And the girl's love for him, read by her in those 

clear 
Limpid eyes ; then the pleasure with which she 

awaited 
Her cousin's approval of all she had stated. 
At length from that cousin an answer there caine. 
Brief, stern ; such as stunn'd and astonish'd the 

dame. 
" Let Constance leave Paris with you on the day 
You receive this. Until my return she may stay 
At her convent awhile. If my niece w'ishes ever 
To behold me again, understand, she will never 
Wed that man. 

" You have broken faith with me. Farewell !" 

Xo appeal from that sentence. 

It needs not to tell 
The tears of Constance, nor the grief of her lover : 
The dream they had laid out their lives in was over. 
Bravely strove the young soldier to look in the face 
Of a life, where invisible hands seem'd to trace 
O'er the threshold, these words ..." Hope no 

more !" 

Cnreturn'd 
Had his love been, the strong manful heart would 

have spurn'd 
That weakness which suffers a woman to lie 
At tlie roots of man's lift, like a canker, and dry 
And wither the sap of life's purpose. But there 
Lay the bitterer part of the pain ! Could he dare 
To forget he was loved .' that he grieved not alone ? 
Recording a love that drew sorrow upon 
The woman he loved, for himself dare he seek 
Surcease to that sorrow, which thus held him weak. 
Beat him down, and destroy'd him .■' 

News reach'd him indeed. 
Through a comrade, who brought him a letter to 

read 



From the dame who had care of Constance (a was- 

one 
To whom, when at Paris, the boy had been kno\vn, 
A Frenchman, and friend of the Faubourg), which 

said 
That Constance, although never a murmur betray'd 
What she suffer'd, in silence grew paler each day. 
And seem'd visibly drooping and dying away. 
It was then he sought death. 

XVII. 

Tluis the tale ends. 'T was told' 
With such broken, passionate words, as unfold 
In glimpses alone, a coil'd grief. Through each. 

pause 
Of its fitful recital, in raw gusty Haws, 




.'^T NEEDS NOT TO TELL THE TEARS OF CONSTANCE." 

The rain shook the canvas, unheeded ; aloof. 
And unheeded, the night-wind around the tent- 
roof 
-At intervals wirbled. And when all was said. 
The sick man, exhausted, droop'd backward his 

head. 
And fell into a feverish slumber. 

Long while 
Sat the Soeur Seraphine. in deep thought. The 

still smile 
That was wont, angel-wise, to inhal)it her face 
And make it like heaven, was fled from its place 
In her eves, on her lips ; and a deep sadness there 
Seem'd to darken the lines of long sorrow and care, 
.\s low to herself she sigh'd . . . 

■' Hath it, Eugene, 
Been so long, then, the struggle.' . . , and yet, all 
in vain I 



I lO 



l.UCII.E. 



Nay, not all in vain ! Shall the world gain a man, 
And yt-t Heaven lose a soul ? Have 1 done all I 

can ? 
Soul to soul, did lie say ? .Soul to soul, be it so ! 
And then — sinil of mine, whilluT ? whitlier.'" 



xvni. 

Large, slow, 
Silent tears in those deep eyes ascended, and fell. 
" Mw, at least, 1 have fail'd not" . . . she nuised 

..." this is well !" 
She drew from lier Imsoiii two letters. 

In one, 

\ mother's h eart . 
wild with alarm for 
her son, 
I'.reathed bitterly 
forth its despairing;' 
a|)peal. 
■' Tlie (iledge of a 
love owed to thee, 
O I.ucile I 
The hope of a home 
saved by thee — of 
.1 heart 
Which hath never 
since then (tlirice 
endear'd as thou 
art II 
Ceaseil to bless thee, 
to pra\- for thee, 
save ! . . . save 
my son ! 
And if not" . . . the 
letter went broken- 
Iv on. 




ThK KAIN SHOUK I Mti t./\.\VA».' 



11 



en hel 



'Then follow'd, 
from Alfred, a feN\' 
lilotted heart-broken ]iages. He mournfulh drew, 
With ]iathos, the picture of that earnest vouth. 
So unlike his own : how in beauty and truth 
He had nurtured tliat nature, so simple anil brave ! 
And how he had striven his son's vouth to save 
From the errors so sadly redeem 'd in his own. 
And so deeply rejiented : how thus, in that son. 
In whose youth he had garner'd his age, he had 

seeni'd 
To be bless'd by a jiledge that the past was re- 

deem'd. 
And forgiven. He bitterly went on to speak 
Of the boy's battled love ; in which fate seem'd to 

break 
Unawares on his dreams with retributive pain. 
And the ghosts of the past rose to scourge back 

again 



The hopes of the future. 
Tride forbade : and the 

relent 
Kxperience rejected . . . 



To sue for consent 
hope his old foe might 

■ Mv life for the bov's !" 



(He e.xelaim'd) ; " for I die with my son, if he dies ! 



Lucile ! Heaven bless you for all you have done ! 
Sa\e him, sa\e him. I.ucile ! save my son ! sa\e my 

son !" 



" .\y !" niurmur'd the Sa-ur Seraphine ..." heart 

to heart ! 
There, at least, 1 liave fail'd nut ! I'ultiU'd is mv 

part ? 
.Vccomplish'd my mission.' One ait crowns the 

whole. 
Ho 1 linger.' Nay, be it so, thru! . . . Soul to 

soul !" 
.She knelt down, and pr.iy'il. Still the l)o\' slum- 

ber'd on. 
D.iwn brcke. The pale lum from the bedside was 

gone. 

XX. 

Meanw bile, 'mid his aiiles-de-camp, busih bent 

O'er the daily reports, in his well-oriler'd tent 

There sits a French Cieneral — bronzed by the sun 

And sear'd by the sands of Algeria. One 

Who forth from the wars of the wild Kabylee 

Had strangely and rapiilly risen to be 

The idol, the darling, the dream and the star 

Of the \ounger French chivalr\ : daring in war, 

.Vnd warv in council. He enter'd. indeed. 

Late in life (and discariling liis Hourbonite creed) 

The .Army of France ; anil had risen, in part 

From a singular aptitude proved for the art 

Of that wild ilesert warfare of ambush, surprise. 

And .stratagem, which to the French camp supplies 

Its subtlest intelligence; partly from chance; 

I'arth', too, from a name and position which France 

Was proud to put forward ; but mainly, in fact. 

From the prudence to plan, and the daring to act, 

In frequent emergencies startlingly shown. 

To the rank which he now held, — intrepidly won 

With many a wound, trench'd in many a scar, 

From tierce Milianah and Sidi-Sakhdar. 

XXI. 

All within, and without, th.it warm tent .seems to 

bear 
Smiling token of provident order and care. 
All about, a well-fed, well-clad soldiery stands 
In groups rountl the music of mirth-breathing 

bands. 
In and out of the tent, all day long, to and fro. 
The messengers come, and the messengers go, 
I'pon missions of mercv, or errands of toil : 
To report liow the sapper contends with tlie soil 
In the terrible trench, how the sick man is faring 
In the hos]ntal tent : and, combining, comparing. 
Constructing, within moves the brain of one man. 
Moving all. 

He is bending his brow o'er some plan 
For the hospital service, wise, skilful, humane. 
The oflicer standing beside him is fain 
To refer to the angel solicitous cares 



LUCILE. 



Ill 



Of the Sisters of Charity : one he declares 

To be known through the camp as a seraph of 

grace : 
He has seen, all have seen her indeed, in each place 
Where suffering is seen, silent, active — the Soeur . . . 
Soeur . . . how do they call her ? 

" Ay. truly, of her 
I have heard much," the General, musing, replies ; 
'• And we owe her already (unless rumor lies) 
The lives of not few of our bravest. You mean . . . 
Ay, how do they call her ? ... the Soeur — Sera- 

phine. 
(Is it not so?) I rarely forget names once heard." . 

"Yes ; the Soeur Seraphine. Her I meant." 

" On my word, 
I have much wish'd to see her. 1 fancy I trace. 
In some facts traced to her, something more than 

the grace 
Of an angel : I mean an acute human mind. 
Ingenious, constructive, intelligent. Find, 
And, if possible, let her come to me. \Ve shall, 
1 think, aid each other." 

" Out, moil General ; 
I believe she has lately obtain'd the i)ermission 
To tend some sick man in the Second Division 
Of our .Ally : they say a relation." 

" Ay, so ? 
A relation .•'" 

" 'T is said so." 

" The name do vmi know ?" 
" .\on, inoii General." 

While they spoke yet, there went 
A murmur and stir round the door of the tent. 
" A Sister of Charity craves, in a case 
Of urgent and serious importance, the grace 
Of brief private speech with the General there. 
Will the General speak with her ?" 

" Bid her declare 
Her mission." 

" .She will not. She craves to be seen 
And be heard." 

" Well, iier name then .' ' 

" The Soeur Seraphine." 
" Clear the tent. She may enter." 

XXII. 

The tent has been clear'd. 
The chieftain stroked moodily somewhat his beard, 
A sable long silver'd : and press'd down his brow 
On his hand, heavy vein'd. All his countenance, 

now 
Unwitness'd, at once fell dejected, and dreary. 
As a curtain let fall by a hand that 's grown weary, 
Into puckers and folds. From his liiis, unrepress'd. 
Steals th' impatient quick sigh, which reveals in 

man's breast 
A conflict conceal'd, an experience .it strife 
With itself, — the vex'd heart's passing protest on 

life. 
He turn'd to his papers. He he.ird the li.ght tread 



Of a faint foot behind him : and, lifting his head. 
Said, '■ Sit, Holy Sister! your worth is well known 
To the hearts of our soldiers ; nor less to my 

own. 
I have much wish'd to see you; I owe )ou some 

thanks : 
In the name of all those you have saved to our ranks 





MURMI'K'u the StF.L'R SKKAfHlNH . 
HEART." 



HEART TO 



1 record tlu-ni. Sit ! Now then, your mission.'" 

The nun 
Paused silent. The General eyed her anon 
More keenly. His aspect grew troubled. A change 
Darken'd over his features. He mutter'd . . . 

•' Strange ! strange ! 
Any face should so strongly remind me of her .' 
Fool ! again the delirium, the dream ! does it stir ? 
Does it move as of old .' Psha ! 



112 



LUCILE. 




' Like doves to a penthouse." 



" Sit. Sister ! I wait 
Your answer, mv time halts hut hurriedly. State 
The cause why you seek me .'" 

" The cause ? ay, the cause !" 
She vag'uely repeated. Then, after a pause, — 
As one who. awaked unawares, would put back 
The sleep that forever returns in the track 
Of dreams which, though scared and dispersed, not 

the less 
Settle back to faint eyelids that yield 'neath their 

stress. 
Like doves to a penthouse. — a movement she made. 
Less toward him than away from herself ; droop'd 

her head 
And folded her hands on her bosom : long, spare. 
Fatigued, mournful hands ! Not a stream of stray 

hair 
Escaped the pale bands ; scarce more pale than 

the face 
Which they bound and lock'd up in a rigid white 

case. 
She fix'd her eyes on him. There crept a vague 

awe 
O'er his sense, such as ghosts cast. 

" Eugene de Luvois. 
The cause which recalls me again to your side. 
Is a promise that rests unfulliU'd," she reiilied. 
" I come to fulfil it." 

He sjirang from the place 
Where he sat, press'd his hand, as in doubt, o'er 

his face ; 
And, cautiously feeling each step o'er the ground 
That he trod on (as one who walks fearing the 

sound 
Of his footstep may startle and scare out of sight 
Some strange sleeping creature on which he would 

'light 
Unawares), crept towards her ; one heav\- hand laid 
On her shoulder in silence; bent o'er her his head, 
Search'd her face with a long look of troubled appeal 
Against doubt ; stagger'd backward, and mur- 

mur'd ..." llucile ! 
Thus we meet then ? . . . here ! . . . thus ?" 



" Soul to soul, ay, Eugene, 
As I pledged )ou my word that we should meet 

again. 
Dead, . . .' she murniur'd. " long dead ! all that 

lived in our lives — 
Thine and mine — saving that which ev'n life's self 

survives. 
The soul ! 'T is my soul seeks thine own. What 

may reach 
From my life to thy life (so wide each from each !) 
Save the soul to the soul .' To thy soul I would 

speak. 
May I do so .■'" , 

He said (work'd and white was his cheek 
As he raised it), " Speak to me !" 

Deep, tender, serene. 
And sad was the gaze which the So£;ur Seraphine 
Held on him. She spoke. 

XXIII. 

As soine minstrel mav fling, 
Preluding the music yet mute in each string. 
A swift hand athwart the hush'd heart of the whole. 
Seeking which note most fitly may first move the 

soul ; 
And, leaving untroubled the deep chords below, 
Move pathetic in numbers remote ; — even so 
The voice which was moving the heart of that man 
Far away from its yet voiceless purpose began. 
Far awav in the pathos remote of the past ; 
Until, through her words, rose before him, at last, 
Bright and dark in their beauty, the hopes that 

were gone 
Una,ccomplish'd from life. 

He was mute. 



She went on. 
And still further down the dim past did she lead 
Each vielding remembrance, far. far off, to feed 
'Mid the pastures of youth, in the twilight of hope, 
Anrl the vallevs of bovhood, the fresh-flower'd slope 
Of life's dawning land ! 

'T is the heart of a boy, 
\\'ith its indistinct, passionate prescience of joy ! 
The unproved desire — the unaim'd aspiration — 
The deep conscious life that forestalls consumma- 
tion ; 
With ever a flitting delight — one arm's length 
In advance of the august inward impulse. 

The strength 
Of the spirit which troubles the seed in the sand 
With the birth of the palm-tree ! Let ages expand 
The glorious creature ! The ages lie shut 
(Safe, see I) in the seed, at time's signal to put 
Forth their beauty and power, leaf b\ leaf, layer on 

laver. 
Till the palm strikes the sun, and stands broad in 

blue air. 
So the palm in the palm-seed ! so, slowly — so, 
wrought 



LUCILE. 



"3 



Year by year unperceived, hope on hope, thought 

by thoujjht, 
Trace the growth of the man from its germ in the boy. 
Ah. but Nature, that nurtures, may also destroy! 
Charm the wind and the sun, lest some chance 

intervene ! 
While the leaf 's in the hud, while the stem 's in the 

green, 
A light bird bends the branch, a light breeze breaks 

the bough. 
Which, if spared by the light breeze, the light bird, 

may grow 
To baffle the tempest, and rock the high nest. 
And take byath the bird and the breeze to its 

breast. 
Shall we save a whole forest in sparing one seed .' 
Save the man in the boy .' in the thought save the 

deed ? 
Let the whirlwind uproot the grown tree, if it can ! 
Save the seed from the north wind. So let the 

grown man 
Face out fate. Spare the man-seed in youth. 

He was dumb. 
She went one step further. 




^Vr 



Lo ! manhood is come. 
And love, the wild song-bird, hath flown to the 

tree. 
And the whirlwind conies after. Now prove we, 

and see : 
What shade from t'.ie leaf .-' what support from the 

branch ? 
Spreads the leaf broad and fair .' holds the bough 

strong and stanch .' 



*' A LIGHT BIkD BENDS 
THE BRANCH." 

From the past to the 

present, though late, 

I appeal ; 
To the nun Seraphine, 

from the woman 

Lucile !" 

XXVII. 

Lucile ! . . . the old 
name — the old self ! 
silenced long : 

Heard once more ! felt 
once more ! 



As some soul to the throng 
Of invisible spirits admitted, baptized 
By death to a new name and nature — surprised 
'Mid the songs of the seraphs, hears faintlv, and 

far, 
.Some voice from the earth, left below a dim star. 
Calling to her forlornly ; and (sadd'ning the psalms 
- Of the angels, and piercing the Paradise palms 1) 

There, he saw hmiself— dark, as he stood on that -phe name borne 'mid earthly beloveds on earth 

night, Sigh'd above some lone grave in the lantl of her 

The last when they met and thev parted : a sight birth ■ 

For heaven to mourn o'er, for hell to rejoice I go that one word . . . Lucile ! . . . stirr'd the 

An ineffable tenderness troubled her voice ; Soeur Seraphine 

It grew weak, and a sigh broke it through. Y^r a liioment. Anon' she resumed her serene 

Then he said And concentrated calm. 
(Never looKing at her, never hftmg his head, .. Let the Nun. then, retrace 

As though, at his feet, there lay visibly hurl'd The life of the Soldier !" . . . she said, with a face 

Those fragments), "It was not a love, 'twas a That glow'd, gladd'ning her words. 

world, .. -j-Q the Present I come : 

'T was a life that lay ruin'd, Lucile!" Leave the Past '" 

There her voice rose, and seem'd ;is when some 
Pale Priestess proclaims from her temple the 

praise 
Of the hero whose brows she is crowning with 

bays. 
Step by step did she follow his path from the place 
Where their two paths diverged. Year by year did 

she trace 
(Familiar with all) his, the soldier's e.xistence. 
tie moodily murmur'd, " and who cares to Her words were of trial, endurance, resistance ; 
scari Of the leaguer around this besieged world of ours : 

The heart's |)erish'd world, if the world gains a And the same sentinels that ascend the same 
man ? • towers 



XXVI. 

She went on, 
" So be it ! Perish Babel, arise Babylon ! 
From ruins like these rise the fanes that shall 

last. 
And to build up the future Heav'n sh.atlers the 

past." 
" Av, 



114 



LUCILE. 




Her voice reach'd his heart. 
And sank lower. She spoke of herself : how, 

apart 
And unseen, — far .away, — she had watcli'd.year by 

year. 
With how many a blessing, how man\- a tear. 
.And how many a prayer, e\'er\- stage in the strife : 
Gucss'd the thought in the deed : traced the love in 

the life : 
Bless'd the man in the man's work ! 

" Tliy work ... oh not mine ! 
Thine. Lucile !" ... he e.xclaim'd . . . "all the 

worth of it thine 
If worth there be in it !" 

Her answer convey'd 
His reward, and her own : joy that cannot be 

said 
Alone b\- the voice . . . eyes — face — spoke silently 
All the woman, one grateful emotion I 

And she 
A poor Sister of Charity ! hers a life spent 
In one silent effort for others ! . . . 

She bent 
Her divine face above him, and tiU'd up his heart 
With the look that glow'd from it. 

Then slow, with soft art, 
Fix'd her aim. and moved to it. 



" The Paradise palms." 

And report the same foes, the same fears, the same 

strife. 
Waged alike to the limits of each human life. 
She went on to speak of the lone moody lord. 
Shut up in his lone moody halls : ever\- word 
Held the weight of a tear : she recorded the good 
He had patiently wrought through a whole neigh- 

- borhood ; 
And the blessing that lived on the lips of the 

poor. 
By the peasant's hearthstone, or the cottager's door. 
There she paused : and her accents seem'd dipp'd 

in the hue 
Of his own sombre heart, as the picture she 

drew 
Of the poor, proud, sad spirit, rejecting love's wages, 
Yet working love's work ; reading backwards life's 

pages 
For penance ; and stubbornly, many a time. 
Both missing the moral, and marring the rhvme. 
Then she spoke of the soldier ! . . . the man's 

work and fame. 
The pride of a nation, a world's just acclaim ! , 
Life's inward approval ! 



He, the soldier humane, 
He, the hero ; whose heart hid in glory the pain 
Of a youth disappointed ; whose life had made 

known 
The value of man's life ! . . . that youth over- 
thrown 
.And retrieved, had it left him no pity for youth 
In another,' his own life of strenuous truth 
Accomplish 'd in act. had it taught him no care 
For the life of another .' ... oh no ! ever\'where 
In the camp which she moved through, she came 

face to face 
With some noble token, some generous trace 
Of his active humanity . . . 

'■ Well," he replied, 
■■ If it be so ?" 

■■ I come from the solemn bedside 
Of a man that is dying," she said. " While we 

speak, 
.\ life is in jeopardy." 

" Quick then ! you seek 
Aid or medicine, or what .'" 

" 'T is not needed," she said. 
" Medicirit .' yes, for the mind ! 'T is a heart that 

needs aid ! 
You, Eugene de Luvois. you (and you only) can 
Save the life of this man. Will you save it ?" 

" What man .' 
How .' . . . where ? . . . can you ask ?" 

She went rapidlv on 



LUCILE. 



115 



To her object in brief vivid words . . . The younj; 

son 
Of Matilda and Alfred — the boy lying there 
Half a mile from that tent door — the father's de- 
spair, 
The mother's deep anjjuish — the ])ride of the boy 
In the father — the father's one hope and one joy 
In the son : — the son now — wounded. d\mg ! She 

told 
Of the father's stern struggle with life ; the boy's 

bold, 
Pure, and beautiful nature : the fair life before 

him 
If that life were but spared . . . yet a word might 

restore him ! 
The boy's broken love for the niece of Eugene ! 
Its pathos: the girl's love for him ; how, half slain 
In his tent she had found him : won from him the 

tale ; 
Sought to nurse back his life ; found lur efforts 

still fail ; 
Beaten back bv a love that was stronger than 

life ; 
Of how bravely till then he had stood in that strife 
Wherein England and Fr.ince in their best blood, 

at last. 
Had bathed from remembrance the wounds of the 

past. 
And shall nations be nobler than men ? Are not 

great 
Men the models of nations? For what is a state 
But the niany's confused imitation of one ? 
Shall he, the fair hero of France, on the son 
Of his ally seek vengeance, destroying perchance 
An innocent life, — here, when England and France 
Have forgiven the sins of their fathers of yore. 
And baptized a new hope in their sons' recent 

gore .■' 
She went on to tell how the boy had clung still 
To life, for the sake of life's uses, until 
From his weak hands the strong effort dropp'd, 

stricken down 
By the news that the heart of Constkncc, like his 

own. 
Was breaking beneath , , . 

But there " Hold ! " he exclaim'd. 
Interrupting, " forbear !" . . . his whole face was 

inflamed 
With the heart's swarthy thunder which yet, while 

she spoke. 
Had been gathering silent — at last the storm l)roke 
In grief or in wrath. . . . 

" T is to him, then, " he cried, . . . 
Checking suddenly short the tumultuous stride, 
" That I owe these late greetings — for him you are 

here — 
For his sake you seek me — for him, it is clear. 
You have deign'd at the last to bethink you again 
Of this long-forgotten existence I" 

" Eugene !" 
" Ha ! fool that I was !" , . , he went on, , . . 

" and just now, 



While you spoke yet, my heart was beginning to 

grow 
Almost boyish again, almost sure of o/ie friend I 
Yet this was the meaning of all — this the end ! 
Be it so ! There' s a sort of slow justice (admit !) 
In this — that the word that man's linger hath 

writ 
In lire on my heart. I return him at last. 
Let him learn that word — Never !" 

" Ah, still to the past 
Must the present be vassal ?" she said. " In the 

hour 
We last parted I urged you to put forth the power 
Which I felt to be yours, in the conquest of life. 
Yours, the promise to strive: mine, — to watch o'er 

the strife. 
I foresaw you would conquer ; you /itnv conquer'd 

much. 
Much, indeed, that is noble ! I hail it as such. 
And am here to record and applaud it. I saw 
Not the less in your nature, Eugene de Luvois. 
One peril — one point where I fear'd vou would 

fail 
To subdue that worst foe which a man can assail. — 
Himself; and I promised that, if I should see 
Mv champion once falter, or bend the brave knee. 
That moment would bring me again to his side. 
That moment is come ! for that peril was pride. 
And you falter. I plead for yourself, and one other, 
For that gentle child without father or mother. 
To whom you are both. I plead, soldier of France, 
For your own nobler nature — and plead for Con- 
stance !" 
At the sound of that name he averted his head. 
" Constance ! . , . Ay, she enter'd my lone life" 

(he said) 
■■ When its sun was long set; and hung over its 

night 
Her own starry childhood. I have but that light. 
In the midst of much darkness ! Who names me 

but she 
With titles of love ? and what rests there for me 
In the silence of age save the voice of that child .' 
The child of my own better life, undetiled ! 
My creature, carved out of my heart of hearts !" 

" Say," 
Said the Soeur Seraphine — " are you able to lay 
Your hand as a knight on your heart as a man 
And swear that, whatever may happen, you can 
Feel assured for the life you thus cherish .'" 

'• How so ?" 
He look'd up, " If the lioy should die thus ? " 

" Yes, I know 
What your look would imply . . . this sleek stran- 
ger forsooth ! 
Because on his cheek w'as the red rose of youth 
The heart of my niece must break for it !" 

She cried, 
" Nay, but hear me yet further I" 

With slow heavy stride. 
Unheeding her words, he was pacing the tent, 
He was muttering low to himself as he went. 



ir6 



LUCILE. 



" Ay, these young things He safe in our heart just 

so long 
As their wings are in growing ; and when these are 

strong 
They break it, and farewell ! the bird flies !" . . . 

The nun 
Laid her hand on the soldier, and murmur'd, " The 

sun 
Is descending, life fleets while we talk thus ! oh, 

yet 
Let this day upon one final victor)' set. 
And complete a life's conquest !" 

He said, " Understand ! 
If Constance wed the son of this man, by whose 

hand 
My heart hath been robb'd. she is lost to my life I 
Can her home be my home ? Can I claim in the 

wife 
Of that man's son the child of my age ? At her 

side 
Shall he stand on my hearth ? Shall I sue to the 

bride 
Of . . . enough ! 

" Ah, and you immemorial halls 
Of my Norman forefathers, whose shadow yet falls 
On my fancy, and fuses hope, memorj-, past. 
Present, — all, in one silence ! old trees to the blast 
Of the North Sea repeating the tale of old days. 
Nevermore, nevermore in the wild bosky ways 
Shall I hear through your umbrage ancestral the 

wind 
Prophesy as of yore, when it shook the deep mind 
Of my boyhood, with whispers from out the far 

years 
Of love, fame, the raptures life cools down with 

tears ! 
Henceforth shall the tread of a Vargrave alone 
Rouse your echoes .''" 

" O think not," she said, " of the son 
Of the man whom unjustly you hate; only think 
Of this young human creature, that cries from the 

brink 
Of a gra\'e to your merc\- ! 

" Recall your own words 
(Words my memory mournfully ever records !) 
How with love may be wreck'd a whole life ! then. 

Eugene, 
Look with me (still those words in our ears!) once 

again 
At this young soldier sinking from life here — 

dragg'd down 
By the weight of the love in his heart : no renown, 
No fame comforts him .' nations shout not above 
The lone grave down to which he is bearing the 

love 
Which life has rejected ! W'lW you stand apart.' 
You, with such a love's memory deep in your heart ! 
You the hero, whose life hath perchance been led 

on 
Through the deeds it hath wrought to the fame it 

hath won. 



By recalling the visions and dreams of a youth. 
Such as lies at your door now : who have but, in 

truth. 
To stretch forth a hand, to speak only one word. 
And by that word you rescue a life !" 

He was stirr'd. 
Still he sought to put from him the cup ; bow'd his 

face 
On his hand ; and anon, as though wishing to chase 
With one angry gesture his own thoughts aside. 
He sprang U|), brush'd past her, and bitterly cried, 
" No ! — Constance wed a Vargrave ! — I cannot con- 
sent !" 
Then up rose the Soeur Seraphine. 

The low tent, 
In her sudden uprising, seem'd dwarf'd by the 

height 
From which those imperial eyes pour'd the light 
Of their deep silent sadness upon him. 

No wonder 
He felt, as it were, his own stature shrink under 
The compulsion of that grave regard ! For between 
The Due de Luvois and the Soeur Seraphine 
At that moment there rose all the height of one soul 
O'er another ; she look'd down on him from the 

whole 
Lonely length of a life. There were sad nights and 

days, 
There were long months and years in that heart- 
searching gaze ; 
And her voice, when she spoke, with sharp pathos 

thrill'd through 
And transfi.x'd him. 

" Eugene de Luvois, but for you, 
I might have been now — not this wandering nun. 
But a mother, a wife — pleading, not for the son 
Of another, but blessing some child of my own. 
His, — the man's that I once loved ! . . . Hush ! 

that which is done 
I regret not. I breathe no reproaches. That 's best 
Which God sends. 'T was His will : it is mine. 

And the rest 
Of that riddle I will not look back to. He reads 
In your heart — He that judges of all thoughts and 

deeds. 
With eyes, mine forestall not ! This only I say : 
You have not the right (read it, you, as you may !) 
To say . . . ' I am the wrong'd.' "... 

" Have 1 wrong'd thee? — wrong'd tln-e !" 
He falter'd. " Lucile. ah, Lucile !" 

" Nay, not me," 
.She murmur'd, " but man ! The lone nun standing 

here 
Has no claim upon earth, and is pass'd from the 

sphere 
Of earth's wrongs and earth's reparations. But she^ 
Thedead woman. Lucile, she whose grave is in me, 
Demands from her grave reparation to man. 
Reparation to God. Heed. O heed, while you can 
This voice from the grave !" 

" Hush !" he moan'd, " I obey 



THEN UP ROSE THE SCEUR SERAPHINE. 
PaiiitcLl by Tboiius Mcilvjiiic. 



-V 



% 





\ 






1 



LUCILE. 



117 



The Soeur Seraph ine. There, Lucile ! let this pay 
Every debt that is due to that grave. Now lead on : 
I follow you, Soeur Seraphine ! ... To the son 
Of Lord Alfred Vargrave . . . and then," . . . 

As he spoke 
He lifted the tent-door, and down the dun smoke 
Pointed out the dark bastions, with batteries 

crown'd, 
Of the city beneath them . . . 

" Then, there, underground, 
And valete et plaudit e, soon as may be ! 



XXXT. 

Between those sick eyes and the sun 
A shadow fell thwart. 



XXXII. 

'T is the pale nun once more ! 
But who stands at her side, mute and dark in the 

door ? 
How oft had he watch'd through the glor\- and 

gloom 



Let the old tree go down to the earth— the old tree. Of the battle, with long, longing looks that dim 
W ith the worm at its heart! Lay the axe to the 



Who will miss the old stump, so we save the young 

shoot .' 
A Vargrave ! . . . this pays all . . . Lead on ! . . . 

In the seed 
Save the forest ! . . . 

" I follow . . . forth, forth ! where vou lead." 



plume 
Which now (one stray sunbeam upon it) shook, 

stoop'd » 

To where the tent-curtain, dividing, was loop'd I 
How that stern face had haunted and hover'd 

about 
The dreams it still scared ! through what fond fear 

and doubt 




■■ The day was declining.' 



XXX. 

The day was declining ; a day sick and damp. 

In a blank ghostly glare shone the bleak ghostly 

camp 
Of the English. Alone in his dim. spectral tent 
(Himself the wan spectre of youth), with eyes bent 
On the daylight departing, the sick man was sitting 
Upon his low pallet. These thoughts, vaguely 

flitting, 
Cross'd the silence between him and death, which 

seem'd near. 
— " Pain o'erreaches itself, so is balk'd ! else, how 

bear 
This intense and intolerable solitude. 
With its eye on my heart and its hand on niv 

blood .' 
Pulse by pulse ! Day goes down : yet she comes 

not again. 
Other suffering, doubtless, where hope is more plain. 
Claims her elsewhere. I die, strange ! and scarcely 

feel sad. 
Oh, to think of Constance thus, and not to go mad ! 
But Death, it would seem, dulls the sense to his 

own 
Dull doings . . ." 



Had the boy yearn'd in heart to the hero ! (What 's 

like 
A boy's love for some famous man }) . . . Oh, to 

strike 
A wild path through the battle, down striking per- 
chance 
Some rash foeman too near the great soldier of 

France, 
And so fall in his glorious regard ! . . . Oft, how 

oft 
Had his heart flash'd this hope out, whilst watching 

aloft 
The dim battle that jjluine dance and dart — never 

seen 
So near till this moment ! how eager to glean 
Ever)- stray word, dropp'd through the camp-babble 

in praise 
Of his hero — each tale of old venturous days 
In the desert ! And now . . . could he speak out 

his heart 
Face to face with that man ere he died I 

XXXIII. 

With a start 
The sick soldier sprang uji : the blood sprang up in 
him. 



ii8 



LUCILE. 



To his throat, and o'erthrew him : he reerd back : 

a dim 
Sanguine haze fill'd his eyes; in his ears rose the 

din 
And rush, as of cataracts loosen'd within. 
Through which he saw faintly, and heard, the pale 

nun 
(Looking larger than life, where she stood in the 

sun) 
Point to him and nuirmur, " Behold !" Then that 

plume 
Seem'd to wave like a fire, and fad- off in the gloom 
Which momently put out the world. 

XXXIV. 

To his side 
Moved the man the boy dreaded yet loved . . . 
" Ah !" . . . he sigh'd, 



If I knew any means . . . but I know none! . . . 

I swear. 
If this broken fraction of time could extend 
Into infinite lives of atonement, no end 
Would seem too remote for mv grief (could that 

be !) 
To include it ! Not too late, however, for me 
To entreat : is it too late for you to forgive ? 

The Dcke. 
You wrong — my forgiveness — explain. 

The Bov. 

Could I live ! 
Such a very few hours left to life, yet I shrink, 
I falter ! . . . Yes. Duke, your forgiveness I think 
Should free my soul hence. 




'Persistent and wild as int winu amj int kain.' 



" The smooth brow, the fair A'argrave face ! and 

those eyes. 
All the mother's ! The old things again ! 

'■ Do not rise. 
You suffer, young man ?" 

The Boy. 

Sir, I die 

The Dl-ke. 

Not so young ! 

The Bov. 

So young ? yes ! and yet I have tangled ai'nong 
The fray'd warp and woof of this brief life of mine 
Other lives than my own. Could my death but 

untwine 
The vext skein , . . but it will not. Yes. Duke, 

young — so >oung ! 
And I knew you not ? yet I have done vou a wrong 
Irreparable ! . . . late.'too late to repair. 



Ah ! you could not surmise 
That a hoy's beating heart, burning thoughts, long- 
ing eyes 
Were following you evermore (heeded not !) 
While the battle was flowing between us : nor what 
Eager, dubious footsteps at nightfall oft went 
With the wind and the rain, round and round vour 

blind tent. 
Persistent and wild as the wind and the rain. 
Unnoticed as these, weak as these, and as vain ! 
Oh, how obdurate then look'd your tent ! The 

waste air 
Grew stern at the gleam which s.iid . . . "Off! he 

is there !" 
I know not what merciful mystery now 
Brings you here, whence the man whom you see 

lying low- 
Other footsteps (not those !i must soon bear to 

the grave. 
But death is at hand, and the few words I have 
Yet to speak, I must speak them at once. 

Duke, I swear. 



LUCILE. 



ng 



As I lie here (Death's angel too close not to 

hear !l, 
That I meant not this wrong' to you. Due dc 

Luvois, 
I loved your niece — loved ? why, I hn'e her ! I saw, 
And, seeing, how could I but love her ? I seem'd 
Born to love her. Alas, were that all ! Had I 

dreani'd 
Of this love's cruel consequence as it rests now 
Ever fearfully present before me, I vow 
That the secret, unknown, had gone down to the 

tomb 
Into which I descend ... Oh why, wliilst there 

was room 
In life left for w'arning, had no one the heart 
To warn me ? Had any one whisper'd ..." De- 
part !" 
To the hope the whole world seem'd in league then 

to nurse ! 
Had any one hinted ..." Beware of the curse 
Which is coming !" There was not a \oice raised 

to tell. 
Not a hand moved to warn from the blow ere it fell. 
And then . . . then the blow fell on both! This 

is wh\' 
I implore you to pardon that great injury 
Wrought on her, and, through her, wrought on 

you. Heaven knows 
How unwittingly ! 

Thic Duke. 

.W\ ! . . . and, young soldier, suppose 
That I came here to seek, not grant, pardon .' — 



Of yourself. 



The Bov. 



The Duke. 



The Bov. 



Of whom ? 



Duke, I bear in my heart to the tomb 
No boyish resentment ; not one lonely thought 
That honors you not. In all this there is naught 
'T is for me to forgive. 

Every glorious act 
Of your great life starts forward, an eloquent fact, 
To confirm in my boy's heart its faith in your own. 
And have I- not hoarded, to ponder upon, 
A hundred great acts from your life } Nay, all 

these. 
Were they so many lying and false witnesses. 
Does there rest not om voice, which was never 

untrue .' 
I believe in Consiknce. Duke, as she does in you ! 
In this great world around us, wherever we turn. 
Some grief irremetliable we discern ; 
And yet — there sits God, calm in Heaven above ! 
Do we trust one whit less in His justice or love? 
I judge not. 



The Duke. 

Enough ! Hear at last, then, the truth. 
Your father and I — foes we were in our youth. 
It matters not why. Yet thus much understand : 
The hope of my youth was sign'd out by his 

hand. 
I was not of those whom the buffets of fate 
Tame and teach : and my heart buried slain love in 

hate. 
If your own frank young heart, vet unconscious 

of all 
Which turns the heart's blood in its springtide to 

sail, 
And unable to guess even aught that the furrow 
Across these gray brows hides of sin or of sorrow, 
Comprehends not the evil and grief of my life, 
'T will at least comprehend how intense was the 

strife 
Which is closed in this act of atonement, whereby 
I seek in the son of my youth's enemy 
The friend of my age. Let the present release 
Here acquitted the past I In the name of my 

niece. 
Whom for my life in yours as a hostage I give. 
Are you great enough, bov, to forgive me, — and 
■ live? 

Whilst he spoke thus, a doubtful tumultuous joy 
Chased its fleeting effects o'er the face of the 

boy : 
As when some stormy moon, in .i long cloud con- 

tined. 
Struggles outward through shadows, the varying 

wind 
Alternates, and liursts, self-surprised, from her 

prison, 
.So that slow joy grew clear in his face. He had 

risen 
To answer the Duke; but strength fail'd every 

limb ; 
A strange, happy feebleness trembled through him. 
With a faint cry of rapturous wonder, he sank 
On the breast of the nun, who stood near. 

" Yes, boy ! thank 
This gu.irdian angel." the Duke said. " I — you. 
We owe all to her. Crown her work. Live ! be 

true 
To your young life's fair promise, and live for her 

sake ! " 
" Yes, Duke : I will live. I must live — live to make 
My whole life the answer you claim," the boy said, 
" For joy does not kill !" 

Back again the faint head 
Declined on the nun's gentle bosom. She saw 
His lips quiver, and motion'd the Duke to withdraw 
And leave them a moment together. 

He eyed 
Them both with a wistful regard ; turn'd, and 

sigh'd. 
And lifted the tent-door, and jjass'd from the tent. 



I20 



LUCILE. 



Like a furnace, the fervid, intense Occident 

From its liot seetliing levels a great glare struck 

up 
On the sick metal sky. And, as out of a cup 
Some witch watches boiling wild portents arise. 
Monstrous clouds, mass'd, misshapen, and ting'd 

with strange dyes, 
Hover'd over the red fume, and changed to weird 

shapes 
As of snakes, salamander^, efts, lizards, storks. 

apes. 
Chimeras, and hydras : whilst — ever the same — 
In the midst of all these (creatures fused by his 
flame, 

And changed 
by his in- 
fluence!) 
c h angeless, 
as when, 
Ere he lit down 
to death gen- 
erations of 
men, 
O'er that crude 
and ungain- 
ly creation, 
which there 
With wild 
shapes this 
cloud-world 
seem 'd to 
mimic in air. 
The eye of 
Heaven's 
all -judg- 
ing; wit- 
iii-ss, he 
- shone. 
And shall 
shine on 
the ages 
we reach 
not — the 




*' Asleep on the wave, in the last 
light of day." 



XXXVI. 

Nature posted her parable thus in the skies. 

And the man's heart bore witness. Life's vapors 

arise 
And fall, pass and change, group themselves and 

revolve 
Round the great central life, which is Love : these 

dissolve 
And resume themselves, here assume beauty, there 

terror ; 
And the phantasmagoria of infinite error. 
And endless complexity, lasts but a while ; 
Life's self, the immortal, immutable smile 
Of God, on the soul, in the deep heart of Heaven 



Lives changeless, unchanged ; and our morning and 

even 
Are earth's alternations, not Heaven's. 

XXXVII. 

While he yet 
Watch'J the skies, with this thought in his heart ; 

while he set 
Thus unconsciously all his life forth in his mind, 
Summ'd it up, search'd it out, proved it vapor and 

wind, 
And embraced the new life which that hour had 

reveal'd, — 
Love's life, which earth's life had defaced and con- 

ceal'd ; 
Lucile left the tent and stood by him. 

Her tread 
Aroused him ; and, turning towards her, he said : 
" O Sceur Seraphine, are you happy.'" 

" Eugene, 
What is happier than to have hoped not in vain ?" 
She answer'd, — " And you ?" 
" Yes." 

" You do not repent }" 
"No." 
■■ Thank Heaven !" she murmur'd. He musinglv 
bent 
His looks on the sunset, and somewhat apart 
Where he stood, sigh'd,as though to his innermost 

heart, 
" O blessed are they, amongst whom I was not. 
Whose morning unclouded, without stain or spot. 
Predicts a pure evening ; who, sunlike, in light 
Have traversed, unsullied, the world, and set 

. bright !" 
But she in response, " Mark yon ship far away. 
Asleep on the wave, in the last light of day. 
With all its hush'd thunders shut up ! Would you 

know 
A thought which came to me a few days ago. 
Whilst watching those ships .' . . . When the great 

Ship of Life 
Surviving, though shatter'd, the tumult and strife 
Of earth's angry element, — masts broken short. 
Decks drench'd, bulwarks beaten — drives safe into 

port. 
When the Pilot of Galilee, seen on the strand. 
Stretches over the waters a welcoming hand ; 
When, heeding no longer the sea's baffled roar. 
The mariner turns to his rest evermore ; 
What will then be the answer the helmsman must 

give? 
Will it be . . . ' Lo our log-book I Thus once did 

we li\-e 
In the zones of the South ; thus we traversed the 

seas 
Of the Orient; there dwelt with the Hesperides ; 
Thence foUow'd the west wind ; here, eastward we 

turn'd ; 
The stars fail'd us there ; just here land we dis- 
cern'd 



LUCILE. 



121 



On our lee ; there the storm overtook us at last ; 
That day went the bowsprit, the next day the mast ; 
There the mermen came round us, and there we 

saw bask 
A siren? ' The Captain of Port will he ask 
Any one of such questions ? I cannot think so ! 
But ..." What is the last Bill of Health you can 

show ? ' 
Not — How fared the soul through the trials she 

pass'd ? 
But — What is the state of that soul at the last ?" 

" May it be so !" he sigh'd. " There ! llie sun drops, 

behold !" 
And indeed, whilst he spoke all the purple and gold 
In the west had turn'd ashen, save one fading strip 
Of light that yet gleam'd from the dark nether lip 
Of a long reef of cloud ; and o'er sullen ravines 
And ridges the raw damps were hanging white 

screens 
Of melancholy mist. 

" Nunc diinHtis !" she said> 
"O God of the living! whilst yet 'mid the dead 
And the dying we stand here alive, and thy days 
Returning, admit space for prayer and for praise. 
In both these confirm us ! 

" The helmsman, Eugene, 
Needs the compass to steer by. Pray always. 

Again 
We two part : each to work out Heav'n's will : 

you, trust. 
In the world's ample witness ; and I, as I must. 
In secret and silence : you, love, fame, await ; 
Me, sorrow and sickness. We meet at.one gate 
When all 's over. The ways they are many and 

wide, 
And seldom are two ways the same. Side by side 
May we stand at the same little door when all 's 

done ! 
The ways they are many, the end it is one. 
He that knocketh shall'enter : who asks shall ob- 
tain : 
And who seeketh, he findeth. Remember, Eu- 
gene !" 
She turn'd to depart. 

'■ Whither? whither?" he said. 
She stretch'd forth her hand where, already out- 
spread 
On the darken'd horizon, remotely they saw 
The French camp-fires kindling. 

" O Due de Luvois, 
See yonder vast host, with its manifold heart 
Made as one man's by one hope ! That hope 't is 

your part 
To aid towards achievement, to save from reverse : 
Mine, through suffering to soothe, and through 

sickness to nurse. 
1 go to my work : you to yours." 



XXXVIII. 



Whilst she spoke, 



On the wide wasting evening there distantly broke 
The low roll of musketry. Straightway, anon, 
From the dim Flag-staff Battery bellow'd a gun. 
'■ Our chasseurs are at it !" he mutter'd. 

She turn'd. 
Smiled, and pass'd up the twilight. 

He faintly discern 'd 
Her form, now and then, on the flat lurid sky 
Rise, and sink, and recede through the mists : by 

and by 
The vapors closed round, and he saw her no more. 

XXXIX. 

Nor shall we. For her mission, accomplish 'd, is 

o'er. 
The mission of genius on earth ! To uplift. 
Purify, and confirm by its own gracious gift. 
The world, in despite of the world's dull endeavor 
To degrade, and drag down, and oppose it forever. 
The mission of genius : to watch, and to wait, 
To renew, to redeem, and to regenerate. 
The mission of woman on earth ! to give birth 
To the mercy of Heaven descending on earth. 
The mission of woman : permitted to bruise 
The head of the serpent, and sweetly infuse. 
Through the sorrow and sin of earth's register'd 

curse, 
The blessing which mitigates all : born to nurse. 
And to soothe, and to solace, to help and to heal 
The sick world that leans on her. This was Lucile. 



A power hid in pathos : a fire veil'd in cloud : 
Yet still burning outward : a branch which, though 

bow'd 
By the bird in its pas.sage, springs upward again : 
Through all symbols I search for her sweetness — 

in vain ! 
Judge her love by her life, For our life is but love 
In act. Pure was hers : and the dear God above, 
Who knows what His creatures have need of for 

life. 
And whose love includes all loves, through much 

patient strife 
Led her soul into peace. Love, though love may 

be given 
In vain, is yet lovely. Her own native heaven 
More clearly she mirror'd, as life's troubled dream 
Wore away; and love sigh'd into rest, like a stream 
That breaks its heart over wild rocks toward the 

shore 
Of the great sea which hushes it U]) evermore 
With its little wild wailing. No stream from its 

source 
Flows seaward, how lonely soever its course. 
But what some land is gladden 'd. No star ever 

rose 
And set, without intluence somewhere. Who knows 



122 



LUCILE. 



What earth needs from earth's lowest creature ? 

No Ufe 
Can be pure in its purpose and strong in its strife 
And all life not be purer and stronger thereby. 
The spirits of just men made perfect on high, 
The army of martyrs who stand by the Throne 
And gaze into the Face that niaUes glorious their 

own. 
Know this, surely, at last. Honest love, honest 

sorrow, 
Honest work for the day, honest hope for the 

morrow. 
Are these worth nothing more than the hand they 

make wear>'. 
The heart they have sadden'd, the life they leave 

dreary .' 



Hush ! the sevenfold heavens to the voice of the 

Spirit 
Echo ; He that o'ercometh shall all things inherit. 

XLI. 
The moon was, in fire, carried up through the fog ; 
The loud fortress bark'd at her like a chain'd dog. 
The horizon pulsed flame, the air sound. All 

without. 
War and winter, and twilight, and terror, and 

doubt ; 
All within, light, warmth, calm ! 

In the twilight, longwhile 
Eugene de Luvois with a deep, thoughtful smile 
Linger'd. looking, and listening, lone by the tent. 
At last he withdrew, and night closed as he went 



THE END. 



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